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Potterat  and  the 
War 


By 

Benjamin  Vallotton 

Author  of 
Propos  du  Commissaire  Potterat,"    "Monsieur  Potterat  se  marie,"  etc. 


!••.•••  I3* 


New  York 

Dodd,  Mead  &  Company 

1918 


CHAPTER  I 

?  I  like  this  place  immensely  !"  and  with  a  wide  sweep 
of  both  arms  towards  the  horizon,  David  Potterat  added : 
"  The  Alps  on  the  left,  the  Jura  on  the  right,  the  Lake 
in  front,  the  Jorat  behind,  the  sun  blazing  away  in  the 
heavens,  a  garden,  and  me  in  the  middle  of  it.  .  .  . 
What  more  could  a  man  want  V* 

So  then,  after  a  career  full  of  honours  and  of  dangers, 
the  retired  Police  Superintendent  had  settled  down  to 
cultivate  his  flowers,  grow  salads,  and  employ  his  detec- 
tive talents  in  tracking  down  snails  and  slugs. 

Was  it  really  nine  years  since  he  and  his  wife  and  two 
cats  had  come  to  live  in  this  old  house,  above  whose 
doorway,  half  hidden  by  the  climbing  ivy,  might  be 
read  the  poetic  name  'Eglantine  Cottage.'  .  .  .  Nine 
years  !     But  happiness  is  not  to  be  measured  by  years. 

Often  would  Potterat  lean  upon  his  spade,  and  look 
up  at  the  house,  the  overhanging  eaves  of  which  made  it 
look  like  an  old  face  in  a  poke  bonnet.  With  a  musically 
monotonous  note  the  fountain  behind  the  thicket 
plashed  ceaselessly  into  its  basin;  and  the  arched  door 
of  the  shed,  the  dormer  windows,  the  laurels,  and  the 
thousand  and  one  flowers  which  faithfully  came  to  keep 
tryst  with  the  seasons,  the  jasmine,  honeysuckle,  tulips, 
larkspurs,  carnations,  and  roses,  lay  always  under  the 
magic  of  its  voice. 

Potterat  loved  to  sit  on  the  bench  in  the  shade,  and 
smoke  his  pipe  after  the  day's  work.  The  fragrance  of 
coffee  roasting  in  preparation  for  the  evening  meal,  and 

459571 


2  POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR 

the  scent  of  the  flowers  borne  on  the  warm  air,  mingled 
with  the  fragrant  tobacco  smoke,  made  an  atmosphere 
which  it  was  good  to  breathe,  which  invigorated  both 
mind  and  body. 

In  the  spotless  kitchen,  the  deal  table,  the  wooden 
benches,  the  saucepans,  the  pots  and  pans,  cups  and 
saucers,  patterned  with  blue  forget-me-nots,  conveyed  a 
suggestion  of  peaceful  torpor  after  many  meals.  In  the 
thickness  of  the  wall  a  door  opened  on  six  steps  leading 
down  to  a  cool  cellar,  where  two  casks  reposed,  in  com- 
pany with  pots  of  jam  in  orderly  rows.  A  second  cellar 
served  as  a  general  storeroom,  workshop,  and  woodshed. 

All  these,  however,  shrank  into  unimportance  beside 
'  the  room/  a  good-sized  chamber,  not  so  small  as  to 
make  one  feel  cramped,  nor  so  large  as  to  make  one  feel 
lost  in  it.  Two  windows,  in  deep  embrasures,  admitted 
a  discreet  amount  of  light  to  the  faded  wallpaper  on  which 
shepherdesses  disported  themselves;  and  to  the  old  fur- 
niture, ranged  along  the  walls  in  orderly  regularity. 
Here  were  some  shooting  prizes,  handsomely  framed, 
and  the  commissions  of  the  master  of  the  house  to  his 
various  grades,  from  sergeant  to  superintendent;  some 
photographs  of  heavily  moustached  policemen,  others  of 
fellow-members  of  the  brass  band  to  which  he  belonged; 
one  of  a  smiling  grandmother,  whom  the  artist  had 
represented  as  standing  by  a  cage  of  brilliantly  plumaged 
birds;  and  lastly,  resplendent  in  their  bridal  veils, 
Potterat's  two  wives,  side  by  side  on  one  wall,  beamed 
on  a  portrait  of  Potterat  himself  on  the  opposite  wall, 
Potterat  in  full  uniform,  the  buttons  of  which  shone 
out  from  the  dark  cloth  like  dandelions  on  a  grassy  field, 
and  with  his  chest  well  thrown  out.  When  the  original 
of  the  portrait  sat  on  the  sofa  below,  it  could  easily  be 
seen  that  the  painter,  in  spite  of  all  his  efforts,  had  not 
done  full  justice  to  Potterat's  radiant  cheeks,  his  plump, 
easy-going  good-nature,  his  merry  eyes,  and  the  smiling 


POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR  3 

gaiety  of  the  whole  face  which  arched  his  eyebrows, 
wrinkled  up  his  nose,  creased  his  double  chin,  and  made 
his  cheekbones  glisten. 

"  That  man  of  mine,"  Madame  Potterat  would  say. 
"  He's  always  got  his  joke  !" 

For  nine  years  his  laugh  had  filled  Eglantine  Cottage. 
The  first  few  months  of  his  settling  there,  however,  had 
not  been  without  a  certain  melancholy.  With  the  con- 
tradictoriness  of  human  nature,  whilst  he  was  in  uniform, 
promenading  the  streets,  keeping  vigilant  guard,  Super- 
intendent Potterat  was  always  longing  for  the  country, 
recalling  the  sights  and  sounds  of  his  childhood  in 
Thierrens,  a  remote  country  village,  and  at  Bioley-Orjulaz; 
yet  when  he  had  retired  to  private  life  and  the  peaceful 
cultivation  of  a  garden,  he  yearned  for  the  excitements 
of  life  in  the  Police.  But  very  soon  Potterat  banished 
these  weaknesses  as  unworthy  of  a  man  with  so  perfect 
a  digestion  as  his. 

A  true  son  of  the  earth,  a  lover  of  trees,  of  blue  horizons 
of  wandering  paths,  he  appreciated  the  minutes  wasted 
here  and  there  in  the  mornings  and  evenings  in  watching 
the  promontories  of  the  Lake,  and  the  play  of  the  light 
on  the  translucent  water. 

It  is  like  a  scene  on  the  stage  \"  said  he  to  his  wife. 

"  Except  that  there  are  no  actors." 

"  Actors  ?  .  .  .  What  about  you,  and  me,  and  the 
hens,  and  the  cats,  and  the  bats,  and  the  swallows  ! 
We  make  up  our  parts  as  we  go.  .  .  .  There  is  nothing 
so  untrue  to  life  as  the  theatre  !  When  I  was  a  police- 
man, I  used  to  have  to  go  there  sometimes,  in  my  pro- 
fessional capacity.  I  generally  sat  up  at  the  back  of 
the  gallery.  .  .  .  Talk  about  actors  !  It  took  them 
three  hours,  sometimes  four,  to  get  to  the  point  of  saying 
'  I  love  you  !'  and  this  in  good  pieces,  mind  you  !  In  the 
other  sort  .  .  .  nothing  but  inconstant  husbands,  light 
women,  emancipated  girls,  illegitimate  births,  revolver 


4  POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR 

shooting,  in  fact,  '  the  devil  and  all  his  works  '!  Often 
have  I  seen  women  apparently  breathing  their  last, 
lying  flat  on  the  linoleum  !  But  I  only  laughed  in  my 
sleeve.  I  knew  very  well  that  I  should  see  them  the 
next  day  as  usual,  tiptoeing  about  on  their  little  high- 
heeled  shoes,  their  faces  whiter  with  powder  than  a 
plasterer's  !  No,  in  the  theatre,  everything  is  made-up, 
artificial;  in  the  country,  everything  is  natural." 

Madame  Potterat,  also  born  in  the  country,  and  later 
transplanted  to  the  town,  a  milliner  before  she  became 
the  wife  of  a  gardener,  had  felt  somewhat  the  same  as 
her  husband.  Her  feelings  were  different,  however; 
more  hidden,  but  perhaps  stronger  and  more  enduring. 
While  she  was  in  daily  contact  with  velvets,  plumes, 
aigrettes,  ostrich  feathers,  artificial  flowers,  etc.,  she  used 
to  indulge  in  wonderful  dreams  of  some  grand  future. 
Now,  leaning  over  the  cradle  of  a  young  Potterat,  she 
built  castles  in  the  air  for  her  son,  saw  him  at  last  married 
to  some  high-born  damsel.  .  .  .  Meantime,  what  was 
to  be  his  name  ?  .  .  .  Gerard  ?  .  .  .  Gontran  ?  .  .  . 
Hugo  ?  .  .  .  Fedor  ?  .  .  .  Sweeping  all  these  high- 
sounding  names  aside  contemptuously,  Potterat  insisted 
on  his  being  christened  '  Charles.' 

"  Give  him  a  decent  name  that  won't  attract  atten- 
tion !"  he  said. 

By  dint  of  coaxing,  Madame  Potterat  persuaded  him 
to  allow  the  child  to  be  called  '  Carlo  '  instead  of '  Charles,' 
and  for  the  sake  of  peace  Potterat  gave  in. 

"  All  right,  call  him  '  Carlo  '  !  That  won't  make  him 
die  a  day  sooner  !" 

Only  a  hedge  separated  Potterat's  garden  from  that  of 
his  son-in-law,  Justin  Schmid.  The  two  men  did  not 
get  on  well  together;  one  all  good-nature,  sociable, 
talkative,  animated;  the  other  silent,  reserved,  jealous 
of  the  little  pension  which  enabled  his  father-in-law  to 
live   in   tolerable   comfort   without   anxiety.     That   his 


POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR  5 

father-in-law,  in  addition  to  this,  had  the  cheek  to  sell 
some  of  his  vegetables  and  fruit  amongst  his  friends  and 
to  the  cooks  of  some  rich  families  plunged  Schmid  into 
a  fury  of  jealous  resentment  that  was  perfectly  obvious 
to  everyone,  in  spite  of  his  silence.  The  great  jovial 
laughs  that  rang  out  at  every  turn  from  the  garden  the 
other  side  of  the  hedge  were  detestable  to  him;  and, 
moreover,  his  father-in-law's  continual  jokes  on  a  certain 
subject  annoyed  him  exceedingly. 

"  And  the  son  and  heir  ?  .  .  .  When  is  he  going  to 
appear  ?  .  .  .  You  must  tell  Louise  to  hurry  up.  Ours 
is  already  two  months  old.  ...  It  would  be  pretty, 
an  uncle  and  a  nephew  of  the  same  age.  ..." 

Carlo  was  still  a  baby  in  arms  when  Louise  at  last  had 
a  boy.  They  called  him  Louis.  Tenderly,  Potterat  and 
his  wife  bent  over  the  new  baby,  who  wailed  continually. 

"  W7hat  a  great  whopping  boy  !" 

"  He  is  the  image  of  you,  Louise,"  said  Madame 
Potterat,  "  but  he  is  going  to  be  fair,  like  his  father.  ..." 

'  Too  bad  !"  murmured  Potterat  softly.  Then  aloud: 
"How  d'ye  do,  young  man  ?  How  do  you  like  this 
world  ?  .  .  .  It  might  be  better,  hey !  .  .  .  and  it 
might  be  worse.  You  have  to  take  the  rough  with  the 
smooth.  ...  In  another  seventy  years  or  so,  you  will 
be  nearly  ready  to  leave  it  again.  You  will  have  had 
bad  times  and  good  times,  like  everybody  else.  The 
great  thing  is  to  have  a  good  digestion  and  a  good  con- 
science.    The  rest  will  look  after  itself." 

Schmid,  taciturn  and  dour,  watched  his  father-in-law 
out  of  the  corner  of  his  eye. 

'  Was  there  ever  such  a  deaf-mute  of  a  man  !  If  the 
good  God,  at  the  Judgment  Day,  demands  account  of 
every  idle  word,  his  examination  won't  take  long  !" 

So  thought  Potterat  to  himself  a  little  later,  as  he 
planted  tomatoes.  This  work  done,  he  filled  his  watering- 
cans,  walked  about  with  short  steps,  holding  the  water- 


6  POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR 

ing-pot  at  arm's  length,  his  huge  apron  standing  out 
round  him,  his  braces  lost  in  the  folds  of  his  shoulders, 
his  face  radiant  with  happiness  in  this  beautiful  month 
of  May. 

On  the  other  side  of  the  hedge,  Justin  Schmid  per- 
formed the  same  work  in  grim  silence,  methodically, 
sparing  of  distances,  of  trouble,  sparing  also  of  manure, 
the  heap  of  which  had  scarcely  diminished  at  all.  More 
prodigal,  the  sun  shone  impartially  on  the  twin  gardens, 
on  the  house  with  its  two  entrances,  glanced  off  the  edge 
of  a  tool,  penetrated  in  shafts  into  a  clump  of  raspberry 
bushes.  Along  a  path,  with  its  tail  high,  its  whiskers 
flying  on  the  wind,  begging  for  caresses,  the  cat  Mi-Fou 
joined  his  master. 

"  You're  getting  old,  my  friend,"  said  Potterat  to  him. 
"  How  is  the  lumbago  ?" 

Mi-Fou  mewed  by  way  of  reply. 

"  That's  right !"  said  his  master.  "  I  like  cats  who 
talk,  I  do  !" 

These  words  were  carried  by  the  wind  to  the  ears  of 
Justin  Schmid.     Others  followed  them: 

"  You're  planting  those  tomatoes  too  closely.  .  .  . 
They  want  plenty  of  room.  .  .  .  You  must  give  them 
space  to  fill  out  properly,  to  look  at  each  other,  to  get  a 
good  bright  red.  ..." 

This  advice  annoyed  Schmid  exceedingly.  Potterat 
was  rather  fond  of  giving  advice.  Grumpily  he  replied 
in  a  gruff  voice: 

"  Everyone's  got  his  own  way  of  doing  things  !" 

"  Cross-grained  brute  !"  muttered  Potterat  to  himself, 
as  he  picked  up  a  fresh  watering-can.  "  Always  cranky, 
suspicious,  obstinate,  sneering.  .  .  .  Oh,  he's  a  nice 
specimen  to  have  for  a  neighbour  !" 

Potterat  delighted  in  the  society  of  his  fellows.  He 
was  never  happy  without  an  audience.  Nothing  pleased 
him  so  much  as  the  social  evenings  spent  amongst  his 


POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR  7 

friends,  the  time-honoured  toasts  drunk  in  company, 
the  little  stories  which  provoked  roars  of  laughter. 

He  belonged  to  a  Choral  Society,  was  a  member  of  a 
huge  brass  band  called  '  La  Brise  du  Lac,'  and  of  various 
other  societies  for  mutual  improvement.  To  indulge  still 
more  his  sociable  taste,  he  had  even  cut  some  openings 
in  the  hedge  which  bordered  the  road,  and  at  one  or  other 
of  these  he  might  often  be  seen,  leaning  with  folded  arms 
on  the  battlement  of  foliage,  his  broad  shoulders  filling 
up  the  space  completely. 

"  How  are  things  going  in  the  Police  ?"  he  inquired 
one  day  of  Sergeant  Delessert,  as  he  passed. 

Delessert  eyed  longingly  a  peach-tree  laden  with  fruit, 
as  he  answered  with  a  smile : 

"  The  Police  ?  .  .  .  Oh,  everything's  changing.  .  .  . 
In  your  time  things  were  pretty  easy-going.  Now  the 
discipline  is  simply  Prussian.  .  .  .  Ah,  you  retired  at 
the  right  time.  .  .  .  Fine  time  you  have  here  !  You 
plant,  you  reap,  you  eat  your  own  peaches  !  .  .  ." 

A  little  ashamed  of  his  easy  life,  Potterat  returned  to 
the  subject: 

'  What's  the  latest  news  at  the  Station  ?" 

2  Oh,  the  same  old  round:  they  catch  the  little  thieves, 
and  let  the  big  thieves  go  free.  ...  A  fortnight  ago, 
they  ran  in  Belisaire  again,  for  the  thirty-second  time. 
.  .  .  Begging,  peddling  without  a  licence,  poaching,  .  .  . 
but  you  know  him  better  than  I  do  !  .  .  .  He  came  out 
on  Saturday.  So  look  out  for  your  fruit !  He's  prowling 
about  this  neighbourhood,  I  believe  !" 

"  Ho,  the  devil  he  is  !    That  explains  some  things  ! .  .  ." 

For  some  days,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  some  mysterious 
being  had  been  groping  with  grimy  hands  among  the 
downy  peaches.  Potterat  had  put  it  down  to  the  black- 
birds at  first. 

One  evening,  soon  after  this,  as  eleven  o'clock  was 
just  striking,  and  the  moon  came  out  suddenly  from 


8  POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR 

behind  a  cloud,  Potterat's  fist  closed  firmly  on  a  thin 
shoulder,  and  dragged  into  the  tool-shed  a  man  with  an 
old  hat  pulled  down  on  his  ears,  a  shabby  bent  back, 
and  frail  legs  lost  in  the  accordion-like  folds  of  trousers 
much  too  large  for  him. 

"  Well,  I'm  dashed  !"  spluttered  Potterat.  "  People 
may  steal  bread  if  they're  hungry,  but  not  peaches.  Just 
you  wait  till  I  get  a  spade-handle — I've  got  a  good  hard 
one  here — and  I'll  give  you  a  thrashing  you  won't  forget 
in  a  hurry  !  .  .  .  The  cheek  of  the  beggar  !  .  .  .  Coming 
after  my  peaches  !  .  .  ." 

The  moon  threw  on  the  wall  of  the  garden  the  shadows 
of  Potterat's  portly  corporation,  and  the  emaciated 
figure  of  the  thief  in  a  comical  silhouette.  In  the  shed 
a  lantern  was  lighted. 

"  It  is  him,  right  enough  !"  breathed  Potterat.  '  Him  ' 
being  none  other  than  Belisaire,  the  spoilt  child  of  the 
Police,  the  incorrigible  drunkard,  innocent  and  gentle  as 
a  child,  the  timid  pilferer,  a  true  gipsy,  loving  the  open 
roads,  the  hedges,  the  woods,  the  wayside  inns  at  cross- 
roads; Belisaire,  dirty  and  in  rags,  a  quid  of  tobacco 
always  in  his  left  cheek,  bright-eyed,  and  with  a  matted 
beard. 

'  Wretch  !"  began  Potterat,  in  a  voice,  however,  so 
deep  and  so  kindly,  in  spite  of  the  circumstances,  that 
tears  came  to  the  eyes  of  the  incorrigible  old  dreamer. 
"  At  your  age,  to  creep  through  fences,  to  climb  plum- 
trees  !  .  .  .  You're  mad,  quite  mad  !  Nobody  else  in 
the  world  would  think  of  doing  such  things  !  .  .  .  Well, 
well !  .  .  .  To  be  robbing  orchards  when  you  are  old 
enough  to  be  a  grandfather  !" 

A  silence  followed  these  words.  Half  turned  away, 
Belisaire' s  narrow,  rather  foxy  face  could  no  longer  be 
seen,  but  only  his  sharp,  Punch-like  profile. 

"  Ah,  things  are  very  different  now  from  what  they 
were  when  you  were  in  the  Police  !      For  nothing  at  all 


POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR  9 

scarcely,  they  run  me  in  now  on  the  ground  that  I  am 
a  worry  to  them.  ...  I  can't  roam  about  now  as  I 
used  to  do.  People  don't  understand  things  nowadays  ! 
.  .  .  Oh,  one  time  or  another,  some  wet  night,  I'll  have 
to  buy  a  bit  of  rope  .  .  .  there's  always  a  tree  handy  ! . . ." 

With  arms  folded  across  his  chest,  moved  by  that 
plaintive  voice,  Potterat  looked  at  Belisaire:  "What  a 
lot  of  white  in  his  beard  !"  thought  he.  "  And  is  it 
really  quite  the  thing  for  you,  prosperous,  retired,  twice 
married,  to  be  so  hard  on  this  tramr>  ?  This  poor,  lonely, 
feeble  old  man  !" 

"  Look  here,  Belisaire,"  said  he  at  last,  with  a  kindli- 
ness in  his  voice  that  the  sharp  ears  of  the  old  man  were 
quick  to  note,  "  how  many  weeks  in  the  month  are  you 
drunk  V* 

A  growl  was  the  only  reply. 

"  Now,  see  here  !  You're  fond  of  the  country,  aren't 
you  ?  Planting,  watering,  weeding,  gathering  fruit  and 
vegetables,  smoking  a  pipe  while  you  dig  a  little  now 
and  then — that  ought  to  suit  you  pretty  well,  eh  ?" 

"  Oh,  one  might  do  worse  !  .  .  ." 

"  Well,  would  you  like  to  have  a  job  here  for  some 
days  ?  If  all  goes  well,  we  can  come  to  some  agreement. 
I  want  someone  to  help  me  just  now.  There  are  such 
a  lot  of  little  things  to  be  done  in  the  garden  at  this 
season,  that  I  cannot  keep  pace  with  them  all.  And  I 
have  lately  bought  a  couple  of  goats  too:  I'll  have  to 
rent  a  piece  of  meadow-land,  and  mow  it.  .  .  .  You  can 
have  a  shake-down  in  the  garret,  an  old  coat  from  time 
to  time,  five  francs  at  the  end  of  every  month,  and  your 
food,  and  I  don't  think  that's  at  all  a  bad  offer  for  a 
man  like  you  !  .  .  .  But  remember,  if  you  make  a 
beast  of  yourself,  if  you  come  home  drunk  once  too  often, 
out  you  go  !  .  .  .  An  old  man  like  you,  full  of  rheu- 
matism, and  with  a  bad  cough  !  It's  about  time  you 
thought  of  settling  down,  isn't  it  ?     Well,  what  do  you 


io  POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR 

say  ?  Yes,  or  no  ?  If  no,  then  up  to  the  police-station 
you  go  for  stealing  my  plums  !  If  yes,  I'll  take  you  up 
to  the  garret  at  once." 

Belisaire  saw  in  imagination  a  plate  of  hot  soup  for 
him  at  a  corner  of  the  table ;  a  bed  of  his  own  in  a  garret 
where  one  could  through  the  little  round  window  touch 
the  tiles,  the  topmost  branches  of  the  lime-trees,  talk 
to  the  cats  and  the  birds.  .  .  .  This  garden,  too,  ap- 
pealed to  him.  .  .  .  Not  to  mention  that  he  was  to  be 
allowed  some  little  latitude !  .  .  .  Overcome  with 
emotion,  Belisaire  sat  down,  touched  to  the  heart  by  the 
kindness  that  was  being  shown  him,  and  Potterat  under- 
stood that  he  accepted  the  conditions. 

"  Come  along  then  !  .  .  .  To-morrow  I'll  show  you 
what  to  do." 

So  Belisaire  took  his  place  in  the  little  household. 
Quite  a  handy  man  in  his  way,  he  mended  the  tools, 
repaired  the  canary's  cage,  and  generally  did  his  best  to 
make  himself  useful.  Madame  Potterat,  however,  in- 
sisted on  his  taking  an  occasional  bath  in  the  Lake,  and 
gave  him  a  towel  and  a  piece  of  soap.  Belisaire  always 
returned  clean,  but  slightly  drunk,  and  when  they  scolded 
him,  he  replied  gently:  "  Baths  don't  agree  with  me  !" 
Belisaire  grew  quite  attached  to  the  household — the  very 
way  they  pronounced  his  name  showed  a  kindly  feeling 
towards  him;  they  gave  him  some  tobacco;  Carlo  smiled 
at  him  from  his  cradle.  Yet  in  spite  of  all  this,  he  dis- 
appeared once  or  twice,  to  come  back,  creeping  in  noise- 
lessly, penitent,  half  starved,  tearful:  happy  to  find 
himself  once  more  before  the  big  soup  tureen,  happy 
even  in  the  scoldings  which  showed  he  was  cared  for. 

"  Ha !  So  there  you  are,  you  silly  owl !"  Potterat 
would  remark  perhaps,  and  that  was  all.  However,  as 
one  ages,  one  grows  tired  of  everything,  even  of  roaming. 
The  tramp  himself  acknowledged  this:  he  said  to  him- 
self: 


POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR  II 

"  To  be  a  wanderer  is  all  very  well,  up  to  about  sixty. 
.  .  .  After  that  one  ought  to  settle  down.  ..." 

As  November  lessened  the  necessary  work  of  the 
garden,  and  Belisaire,  with  so  much  spare  time  on  his 
hands,  was  beginning  to  show  signs  of  falling  away  again, 
Potterat  said  to  him  one  day: 

"  I  say,  suppose  we  put  up  a  fowl-house  ?  .  .  .  I 
believe  we  could  build  a  really  good  one  between  us  .  .  . 
like  some  of  those  model  poultry  houses  one  sees  in  cata- 
logues. ..." 

"  Right  you  are  !" 

Madame  Potterat  joined  in  the  discussions:  the  chicken- 
house  appealed  to  her : 

"  I  should  like  this  design,  I  think,"  she  said.  "  It 
is  very  ornamental,  yet  quite  rustic  and  simple." 

"  All  right !     Leave  it  to  us." 

For  some  time  the  two  men  worked  on  it.  They 
plaited  the  thatch.  They  finished  it  off  by  painting 
little  green  and  white  shutters  on  the  outsides  of  the 
house.  An  inclined  plank  led  up  to  the  front  door, 
and  above  this  door  was  a  shield,  on  which  could  be 
read  the  motto  "  Liberty  and  Country."  And  below  this 
couplet : 

"The  man  who  works,  and  the  fowl  that  lays, 
Are  equally  worthy  of  all  men's  praise." 

A  little  fence  marked  off  the  boundaries  of  the  poultry 
domain.  .  .  .  When  all  was  ready,  they  made  a  big 
openwork  crate,  and  with  this  on  a  handcart  they  set 
off  to  buy  their  stock.  Their  return  was  heralded  by 
protesting  squawks,  continuous  cacklings,  energetic 
quackings,  etc.,  as  the  vehicle  bumped  over  the  stones 
of  the  road. 

'!  Here  comes  Barnum's  Menagerie  !"  shouted  some  wit 
of  a  passer-by. 

"  Yes,  and  if  you  want  a  job,  there's  still  a  vacancy 
amongst    the   monkeys,"    retorted    Potterat   haughtily. 


12  POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR 

Belisaire  stalked  on,  quite  oblivious  of  these  silly  jokes, 
his  hands  pushing  the  shafts,  his  scanty  beard  floating 
on  the  wind,  one  eye  half  closed,  his  thin  body  enveloped 
in  an  old  overcoat,  so  faded  that  no  one  could  tell  the 
original    colour.     The    neighbours,    Burnand,    Griotte, 
Bigarreau,  watched   the  unpacking    of    the  crate.     The 
ducks   and   drakes  waddled   out   placidly,   the   turkeys 
uttered  wild,  raucous  cries,  the  geese  promenaded  along 
gravely,  their  heads  held  high  in  air,  the  cock  and  hens 
streamed  along  in  a  frightened  procession.     Schmid  him- 
self presently  appeared  on  the  scene.     Half  jealously,  he 
watched  the  proceedings,  but  made  only  one  remark: 
"  You're  wasting  a  lot  of  space  over  them.  ..." 
Enthusiastically,  Potterat  expounded  his  idea: 
"  Well,  nothing  annoys  me  more  than  to  see  the  little 
pigsties  that  some  people  think  good  enough  for  poultry. 
.  .  .  No,  they  need  plenty  of  room,  and  a  tree  or  two 
for  those  who  like  a  view  .  .  .  and  a  stream  for  the 
ducks  .  .  .  and  plenty  of  roosts  of  different  heights  for 
the  fowls.  .  .  .     Then  you'll  have  plenty  of  good  eggs. 
.  .  .  I'll  guarantee  them  to  be  full  weight  and  more  .  .  . 
and  they'll  have  the  taste  of  fresh  air  and  sunshine  and 
health.  .  .  .     There  are  some  eggs  that  are  positively 
unwholesome  to  eat,  because  the  fowls  are  kept  mewed 
up  in  coops." 
When  the  neighbours  had  gone,  he  said  to  his  wife : 
"  Did  you  hear  Schmid  ?     Nothing  but  fault-finding 
and  objections.  .  .  .     He's  the  sort  of  man  I   simply 
can't  stand.  .  .  ." 

"  Do  be  quiet,  David.  For  Louise's  sake  it's  better  to 
say  nothing.  After  all,  each  of  you  has  his  own  garden. 
.  .  .  What's  the  good  of  letting  him  worry  you  ?  Every- 
one has  his  own  way." 

"  That's  true;  and  I  prefer  mine." 
As  one  knows,  Potterat  was  a  man  of  fixed  opinions 
and  settled  ways.     On  the  first  Sunday  of  every  month 


POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR  13 

he  always  went  to  church:  a  matter  of  duty  and  habit. 
It  mattered  little  to  him  who  happened  to  be  preaching. 
Seated  on  the  last  bench,  in  the  shadow  of  the  organ  loft, 
he  listened  to  the  droning  of  the  preacher's  voice,  slept 
a  little  generally,  during  the  development  of  the  preacher's 
'  secondly  '  and  '  thirdly,'  then  woke  up  in  time  to  rise 
and  sing  with  the  rest  of  the  congregation.  In  summer, 
how  small  the  congregations  were  !  '  Decidedly,'  thought 
Potterat,  '  church  is  going  out  of  fashion.'  Outside,  the 
bustle  of  traffic,  the  smart  toilettes  which  one  could  not 
help  seeing  through  the  big  plate-glass  windows,  which 
had  cost  twenty  francs  the  square  yard,  the  various  notes 
of  the  motor  horns,  all  said  to  the  people  seated  on  those 
hard  benches: 

"  What  are  you  doing  there  ?  .  .  .  Come  out  and 
enjoy  yourselves."  While  all  the  time  the  voice  from 
the  pulpit  upheld  spiritual  blessings  as  opposed  to  tem- 
poral welfare. 

At  the  midday  dinner,  before  a  plate  laden  with  beef 
and  vegetables,  Potterat  would  give  utterance  to  his 
thoughts. 

"  Religion,  nowadays,  is  a  delicate  matter.  If  you 
preach  the  devil  and  hell  fire,  you  shock  people.  .  .  . 
If  you  say  that  everyone  will  be  saved  .  .  .  '  Well,  then, 
what  does  it  matter  ?  Here  goes.'  ...  If  you  try  to 
combine  the  two  points  of  view,  they  don't  understand 
what  you're  driving  at.  .  .  .  Oh,  it's  jolly  difficult.  .  .  . 
Then  again,  these  aeroplanes,  they  don't  help  religion 
much.  .  .  .  You  see,  all  these  flying  men,  they  go  right 
up  into  the  sky,  and  find  nothing  but  clouds  there.  .  .  . 
On  the  other  hand,  we  are  not  exactly  outside  with  the 
dogs,  at  least,  not  all  of  us.  Religion  is  a  good  thing, 
but  it's  hard  to  practise.  Yet  one  must  have  it.  The 
great  thing  is,  I  should  think,  to  know  how  to  present 
it:  A  description  of  beautiful  scenery,  which  might  well 
be  taken  from  our  mountains,  a  country  modelled  on 


14  POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR 

our  motto  '  One  for  all,  all  for  one  '  .  .  .  a  word  about 
death  and  resurrection  ...  a  judgment  which  is  not 
too  discouraging,  something  kindly  and  welcoming, 
where  one  could  explain  his  case,  plead  extenuating 
circumstances,  and  all  that.  ...  If  you  expect  per- 
fection, you  see,  nothing  can  be  done.  .  .  .  We  all  know 
too  well  what  life  is.  .  .  .  There  are  times  when  it  is 
most  necessary  to  prevaricate,  to  finesse  ...  in  dealing 
with  people.  .  .  .  Yes,  to  attract  people,  religion  must 
be  democratic,  popular.     What  do  you  think,  Belisaire  ?" 

Half  frightened,  Belisaire  fixed  his  eyes  on  his  plate. 

"  To  tell  you  the  truth,  I  haven't  had  time  to  think  of 
these  things,  I've  never  had  decent  enough  clothes  to  go 
to  church.  ..." 

Madame  Potterat  seized  her  husband's  arm : 

"  Don't  talk  about  these  things  before  the  child.  He 
begins  to  understand.  ..." 

M  So  much  the  better.  What  I  say  is  only  common 
sense.  ..." 

When  April  came  in  again,  Potterat,  choosing  a  fine 
afternoon,  betook  himself  to  the  cemetery.  He  pruned 
the  shrubs  growing  round  the  grave  of  his  first  wife,  so 
that  her  name,  graved  on  the  stone,  could  be  clearly 
seen:  '  Jenny  Potterat.'  Some  blackbirds  were  singing: 
under  the  overhanging  arch  of  heavy  foliage,  their  voices 
melted  away. 

44  You  see  that  I  remember,"  said  Potterat. 

He  paid  a  visit  also  to  the  tomb  of  Bolomey,  the  first 
husband  of  his  present  wife.  To  him,  he  said  simply, 
"  Greeting  !"  He  said  it  very  sincerely,  out  of  the  sociable 
friendliness  of  his  heart.  Then  he  wandered  along  the 
paths  amongst  the  graves.  '  I  have  finished  my  course, 
I  have  kept  the  faith,'  ran  the  inscription  on  the  tomb- 
stone of  a  man  who  had  hanged  himself.  That  other 
had  drunk  away  a  fortune.  This  woman  had  been 
divorced.  ...    Ah  !  when  one  has  been  thirty  years  in 


POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR  15 

the  Police,  one  gets  to  know  all  these  little  histories.  .  .  . 
'■  Decidedly,"  he  thought,  "  it  would  seem  almost  better 
that  the  good  God  should  not  know  everything.  .  .  . 
There's  too  much  wickedness  altogether  going  on  in  this 
world.  ...  I  don't  believe  He'll  ever  be  able  to  manage 
a  wholesale  resurrection.  He'll  have  to  raise  them  in 
sections,  about  twenty  per  cent.,  not  more.  .  .  ." 

Each  year  Potterat  had  much  the  same  impressions 
and  thoughts.  Presently  he  went  back  to  his  wife's 
grave,  picked  some  of  the  violets  that  dotted  the  grass 
round  about  in  splashes  of  beautiful  colour,  and  went 
away,  carrying  his  empty  watering-can.  In  the  newer 
part  of  the  cemetery,  the  headstones  were  very  white, 
and  there  were  many  faded  bouquets  and  tawdry  glass 
ornaments.  Occasionally  he  met  a  funeral  procession, 
with  the  coffin  almost  hidden  by  flowers,  and  the  train  of 
mourners  and  friends  bathed  in  the  light  of  the  setting  sun. 

"  A  funeral  wants  music,"  he  thought.  "  Prayers  are 
all  very  well.  But  there's  nothing  like  a  hymn,  and  a 
beautiful  air  played  by  a  band.  That  touches  the  heart 
more  than  anything.  ..." 

On  his  return  to  the  house,  he  said  to  his  wife : 

"I've  just  been  to  see  them  at  the  cemetery.  .  .  . 
They're  sleeping  very  peacefully.  ..." 

The  seasons  passed,  each  one  bringing  its  accustomed 
occupations  and  duties.  In  the  spring,  his  broad  chest 
outlined  by  a  green  apron,  the  pruning  scissors  in  his  hand, 
and  some  strands  of  raffia  between  his  teeth,  Potterat 
wandered  about  the  paths  of  his  garden  lopping  off  a  too 
advanced  bud  here,  a  wandering  branch  there;  and  the 
raspberry  bushes,  peach  trees,  plum  and  apple  trees, 
were  subjected  to  a  daily  inspection.  .  .  .  The  click 
of  his  pruning  scissors  was  heard  continually.  Excited 
by  the  warmth  and  sunshine,  the  hens  laid  eggs  and 
cackled  incessantly.  The  grapes  ripened,  the  garden 
was  filled  with  perfume.  ...     In  the  birds'  nests,  little 


16  POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR 

chirpings  were  heard,  and  presently,  the  nestlings  began 
to  make  their  first  flights.  .  .  .  Potterat,  reigning 
paternally  over  this  little  world  of  open  beaks,  would 
catch  Mi-Fou,  and  shut  him  up  in  the  cellar  day  after 
day,  not,  however,  without  explaining  to  him  the  reason 
for  this  imprisonment: 

"  Everyone  must  live,  you  know.  .  .  .  And  to  eat 
them  when  they  don't  yet  know  how  to  fly  is  not  exactly 
the  thing,  Mi-Fou.  .  .  .  Wait  until  by-and-by,  when 
they  come  after  my  strawberries.  .  .  .  Then  you  can 
creep  along  on  your  stomach,  and  leap  suddenly  on  them, 
to  your  heart's  content.  You  can  carry  off  the  biggest 
of  them  into  the  hedge  at  the  minute  when  he  is  going 
to  eat  my  finest  strawberries.  .  .  .  There,  that's  all 
fair  and  square  .  ...  If  you  steal  .  .  .  I'll  eat  you. 
.  .  .     Do  you  understand  ?"  ... 

Seated  on  the  top  of  a  packing-case,  Mi-Fou  mewed 
"  Yes." 

In  the  evenings  some  people  came  for  vegetables. 
There  was  a  little  procession  of  cooks :  Eva,  Olga,  Aimee, 
etc.;  some  members  of  Potterat's  band;  some  friends 
from  Ouchy ;  Logeon,  known  to  his  friends  as  Forget-me- 
not;  Noverraz,  nicknamed  Me-and-my-Boots ;  another 
friend,  who  rejoiced  in  the  name  of  Bluebeard,  a  giant 
of  a  fellow,  terrible  in  a  scuffle,  with  his  short  pipe  clutched 
between  his  teeth;  and  Delessert,  and  the  flute-player 
of  the  Ouchy  Orchestra,  who  bought  vegetables  for  his 
little  band,  and  Regamey  the  accountant,  who  was 
always  talking  about  defending  the  frontiers,  and  some 
police  constables  who  had  a  weakness  for  tomatoes,  etc. 
They  all  met  in  Potterat's  porch,  and  chatted  as  they 
waited. 

"  How  much  did  that  nose  of  yours  cost  you  ?"  .  .  . 
Delessert  asked  Belisaire.  "  It  must  have  run  you  into 
close  upon  ten  thousand  francs." 

Belisaire,  watering  the  strawberries,  merely  remarked 


POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR  17 

that  it  was  a  safe  investment,  and,  having  emptied  his 
watering-pot,  philosophically  filled  his  pipe. 

"  My  mistress  spends  a  thousand  francs  a  year  on 
perfume  alone/'  said  Eva,  a  thin,  red-haired  woman,  in 
white  cap  and  apron. 

lt  And  mine  thinks  only  of  her  two  dogs.  The  master 
and  the  children  are  nowhere.  It  is  everything  for  those 
dogs.  They  must  have  their  hot  bath  every  day.  .  .  . 
And  they  are  so  disgustingly  fat  that  they  can  hardly 
walk  upstairs.  .  .  ." 

"  What  a  wicked  woman  I"  remarked  Delessert. 
And  Bluebeard  added  gloomily: 
"  They're  all  cracked — these  rich  people." 
"  Oh,  nonsense  !  .  .  .     It  takes  all  sorts  to  make  a 
world,"   Potterat   put  in,   anxious   to   be   conciliatory. 
"  After  all,  everybody  has  a  hobby  of  some  kind:  scent, 
dogs,  the  bottle,  the  banjo,  stamps.  .  .  .     They  must  kill 
time  somehow !" 
Madame  Potterat  closed  the  discussion  by  saying : 
"Oh,  don't  say  a  word  against  riches.    Just  think 
how  delightful  to  be  able  to  do  as  one  likes,  to  order 
what  one  likes,  to  have  nice  furniture,  and  clothes  .  .  . 
to  go  to  parties.  ..." 

From  June  onwards,  it  was  a  beautiful  summer.  .  .  . 
The  long  hot  hours  went  by,  laden  with  perfume,  vibrating 
with  the  sound  of  many  wings;  the  garden  was  a  perfect 
blaze  of  flowers;  they  picked  baskets  full  of  cherries. 
.  .  .  Closed  shutters  made  patches  of  green  on  the  white 
walls  of  the  house,  the  stream  dried  up,  the  ducks  sought 
every  scrap  of  shade.  The  white  hats  of  some  school- 
girls on  their  daily  walk  might  be  seen  bobbing  up  and 
down  above  the  hedge  as  they  passed.  .  .  .  Lots  of 
jam  was  made.  .  .  .  Potterat  weighed  out  the  sugar, 
helped  to  stone  the  plums,  tasted  all  the  pots,  and  pinched 
the  cheeks  of  Louis  and  Carlo,  whose  faces  were  per- 
petually sticky  with  sugar  and  besmeared  with  jam. 


18  POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR 

"  That's  enough,  David,"  Madame  Potterat  would  say. 
"  The  children  will  be  ill." 

"  Nonsense !  It  won't  do  them  any  harm.  Jam's 
good  for  them." 

Then  halfway  through  August,  Potterat  took  the 
honey  from  the  two  hives,  with  Bigarreau's  aid.  He 
donned  a  thick  veil  round  his  head,  a  pair  of  gloves  on 
his  hands,  and  tied  up  the  ends  of  his  trousers,  yet  in 
spite  of  this  an  occasional  angry  bee  would  find  a  means 
of  getting  in  somewhere.     Then  there  were  yells : 

"  D n  the  beast !"  .  .  .  a  flight  into  the  bushes, 

frenzied  gestures,  low  crouchings,  energetic  rubbings.  .  .  . 

"  Don't  get  so  excited !"  cried  Bigarreau.  "  One 
would  think  you  were  finishing  up  a  patriotic  speech." 

"  A-ee  !  A-ouh  !"  replied  Potterat,  doubled  up  behind 
a  dwarf  apple-tree.  The  bee  had  planted  its  sting  in 
the  nape  of  his  neck,  on  which  he  rained  blows  like  hail 
with  his  fist. 

'■'  Damn  !  Every  year  they  sting  me  in  the  very  same 
place." 

"  If  they  sting  you  in  the  same  place  as  last  year, 
you  ought  not  to  feel  anything." 

After  that  Potterat  kept  at  a  safe  distance,  giving  much 
lordly  advice  in  a  stentorian  voice,  holding  a  leek  pressed 
on  the  back  of  his  neck,  and  ready  to  dart  off  into  the 
bushes  at  a  moment's  notice.  > 

Followed  by  a  golden  cloud,  the  frames  were  with- 
drawn, one  by  one,  from  the  hives,  and  carried  into  the 
wash-house,  the  windows  of  which  were  tightly  closed. 
Armed  with  a  sharp-edged  trowel,  Bigarreau  cut  out  the 
combs.  With  his  coat  off  and  his  sleeves  rolled  up  to 
the  elbow,  Potterat  turned  the  handle  of  the  extractor, 
ten  turns  or  so  slowly  at  first,  then  quicker  and  quicker. 
The  machine  droned  like  a  great  bumble-bee,  and  the 
honey  suddenly  flowing  out  noiselessly  into  the  waiting 
pots  seemed  like  an  imprisoned  rav  of  sunshine,  rejoiced 


POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR  19 

to  be  free  again.  .  .  .  Outside,  the  whole  garden  re- 
sounded with  a  loud  quarrelsome  hum.  The  bees  flew 
furiously  about,  dashing  madly,  in  their  blind  rage, 
against  the  windows,  circling  the  house  a  hundred  times, 
flying  into  the  hive,  and  then  coming  out  again  more 
enraged  than  ever.  Belisaire  from  time  to  time  weighed 
the  pots.  "  Ten  kilos  .  .  .  fifteen  kilos.  .  .  .  How  good 
it  tastes.  ...     It  is  as  if  one  were  grinding  up  flowers." 

"  You'll  spoil  it  if  you  go  on  doing  that,"  protested 
Potterat. 

At  last  they  had  finished,  and  at  nightfall  they  regained 
the  house  where  Madame  Potterat  and  Carlo,  with  all 
windows  and  doors  prudently  shut  up,  waited  the  close 
of  the  operations. 

"  Close  the  door !"  someone  cried,  as  they  entered. 

The  savoury  omelette,  the  salad,  the  ham,  the  fragrant 
coffee,  the  good  wine,  were  very  inviting.  .  .  .  The  full 
moon  rose  higher  and  higher  above  the  tree-tops. 

"  Belisaire  and  I  are  both  trying  to  make  ourselves 
as  like  the  man  in  the  moon  as  possible,"  declared  Pot- 
terat. "  His  nose  is  swollen  until  it  seems  to  be  floating 
over  his  face,  and  one  of  his  eyes  looks  towards  the 
Jura.  ...  I've  got  a  neck  so  swollen  that  you  can't 
tell  where  the  neck  ends  and  the  chin  begins.  .  .  .  We  do 
look  pretty,  to  be  sure  !  .  .  .  We  should  do  for  a  show. 
.  .  .  But  I'm  your  own  old  Potterat  all  the  same.  .  .  . 
And  I'm  as  happy  as  a  king.  That's  a  fact.  .  .  .  Yester- 
day I  was  passing  one  of  those  new  blocks  of  flats  five 
stories  high.  Everybody  was  out  on  their  verandas  to 
get  a  breath  of  fresh  air,  and  everybody  looked  bored  to 
death.  On  the  ground  floor,  because  they  had  eaten 
too  much  at  dinner;  on  the  first  floor,  because  they  had 
been  out  late  dancing  the  night  before;  on  the  second 
floor,  because  they  were  trying  to  ape  their  betters;  on 
the  third  because  they  had  not  enough  amusement  or 
variety;  on  the  fourth  because  they  were  sleepy;  and  on 


20  POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR 

the  fifth  because  they  were  jealous  of  the  others.  .  .  . 
But  we,  now,  we're  all  right;  we  eat  our  own  ham  from 
our  own  pig,  salad  from  our  own  garden,  honey  from  our 
own  hives.  .  .  .    We  are  all  right." 

Now  that  the  bees  had  settled  down  in  their  hives 
again,  the  windows  were  opened,  and  Potterat  breathed 
deeply,  drawing  in  the  fragrance  of  the  warm  earth. 
"  The  good  brown  earth  !"  he  thought.  "  How  it  does 
its  work,  nourishing  the  box-borders,  pushing  out  the 
spinach,  the  cabbages  and  cauliflowers,  and  the  rest,  and 
sending  the  sap  right  up  to  the  tops  of  the  trees.  ..." 

"  It's  a  jolly  fine  life  in  the  Police,  but  it's  not  a  patch 
upon  the  life  of  a  gardener.  ..." 

"  What  about  the  weeds  ?"  objected  Belisaire,  as  he 
tenderly  rubbed  his  bent  spine. 

"  Oh,  they're  all  right.  If  we  had  no  weeds,  we  should 
get  too  lazy  altogether.  ..." 

Potterat  loved  the  beautiful  Lake  over  which  he  gazed 
every  day  not  only  for  its  romantic  beauty,  but  also  for 
the  fish  which  it  hid  in  its  bosom.  For  a  mere  trifle, 
Bluebeard  would  let  his  boat  to  his  friends,  and  then 
Potterat,  Vidoudez,  Sergeant  Delessert,  and,  when  he 
could  get  a  day  off,  Regamey,  the  double  bass  of  the 
band,  would  board  it  cautiously,  and  Bluebeard,  with  a 
vigorous  push,  and  a  parting  shout  of  "  Good  luck !" 
would  send  it  out  into  deep  water,  not  without  a  little 
qualm  on  the  part  of  those  not  much  accustomed  to  small 
boats. 

Now  in  a  journey  on  land,  it  is  merely  a  matter  of 
mutual  agreement  for  the  trip  to  be  a  success.  But 
once  on  the  water,  well,  there  one  is,  and  there  one's 
got  to  stay.  One  can't  say  "  I've  had  enough  of  this. 
I'm  going  home."  Fortunately,  however,  this  boat's 
crew  were  very  congenial.  Delessert,  the  Sergeant, 
made  one  think  of  a  bantam  cock.  Precise,  punctual, 
with  prominent  eyes,  one  could  tell  by  his  alert,  upright 


POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR  21 

carriage,  as  well  as  by  his  mania  for  foretelling  excep- 
tional luck  in  fishing,  or  fearsome  storms,  that  he  had 
an  unusually  vivid  imagination. 

As  for  Regamey,  he  was  always  either  in  the  clouds 
or  in  the  depths.  He  enjoyed  everything  with  the 
keenest  zest,  yet  he  had  his  hours  of  depression,  of 
moody  silence.  ...  It  was  easy  to  see  that  Vidoudez 
was  a  clerk  in  a  counting-house,  from  his  chubby  fingers, 
always  stained  with  red  ink.  Fond  of  good  living, 
original  and  full  of  fun  and  life,  careless  as  to  public 
opinion,  he  had  had  an  unhappy  married  life.  Now 
divorced,  he  consoled  himself  with  his  pipe. 

Potterat,  with  his  cool  self-confidence,  his  fiery  in- 
dignation, tempered  by  his  good-nature,  his  way  of 
stirring  up  a  quarrel  and  then  ending  it  with  a  word, 
his  good-humoured  chaffing,  above  all,  his  big  hearty 
laugh,  made  him  the  central  figure  of  this  band  of  friends. 
As  he  leaned  overboard,  drawing  Jiis  hand  idly  through 
the  water,  his  broad  face  beaming  with  delight  shone 
reflected  in  the  rippling  wavelets.  .  .  .  From  the  edge 
of  the  Lake  to  the  boat  stretched,  as  it  were,  a  sheet 
of  light.  Away  off,  on  the  flank  of  the  hill,  vineyard- 
covered  slopes  and  little  villages  could  be  clearly  seen, 
perched  here  and  there  on  the  hillside,  with  their  deep 
hollows,  and  their  little  steep  streets.  ...  A  fishing 
boat  glided  slowly  past,  with  big  slow  sweeps  of  the  oars. 
Potterat  hailed  the  occupants: 

"  Hallo  !    Have  you  got  any  fish  ?" 

"  Oh,  a  good  few.  .  .  ." 

"  Are  they  all  the  same  kind  ?" 

Some  lissom  shadows  glided  about  under  the  water. 

"  Don't  they  roam  about,  the  gay  creatures.  There 
is  no  greater  gadabout  than  a  fish.  .  .  .  However,  that's 
hardly  their  fault;  when  one  has  no  hands  one  can't 
drive  in  a  nail,  or  plane  a  board.  ..." 

There  fell  a  long  silence.     A  woman  on  the  bank  was 


22  POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR 

washing  clothes,  the  measured  blows  rang  out  over  the 
water  almost  to  the  Savoy  coast.  Swans  glided  placidly 
about;  the  sky,  the  water,  the  mountains  all  were  blue. 
One  felt  vaguely  happy,  bathed  in  the  sweet  warm  air. 

"  Suppose  the  bottom  of  the  boat  were  to  fall  out  ?  .  .  ." 

"  That  would  be  an  awkward  sort  of  thing  to  happen. 
The  fat  ones  would  float,  the  thin  ones  would  go  to  the 
bottom.  .  .  .     Every  man  has  his  fate." 

Presently  they  drew  in  the  net,  and  a  stream  of  silver 
poured  into  the  bottom  of  the  boat  .  .  .  little  frisking 
fish. 

"  They're  getting  beastly  small  ..."  grumbled 
Potterat.  "  Long  ago  we  used  to  catch  fish  twice  and 
three  times  as  big  as  these  .  .  .  nowadays  they're  posi- 
tively midgets.  .  .  .  Thirty  years  ago  we  could  scarcely 
draw  up  the  nets  .  .  .  such  big  whoppers  !  .  .  .  And 
we  used  to  sit  on  the  bank,  in  the  shade  of  big  trees  .  .  . 
cool,  and  fresh,  and  delightful  ...  we  never  even 
troubled  to  look  at  the  float.  .  .  .  Just  fix  a  worm 
on  a  hook  and  draw  up  your  line  and  you  had  enough 
delicious  fish  for  breakfast  and  supper,  fera,  with  no  more 
bones  than  a  fillet  of  veal.  .  .  .  Ah,  in  those  days  there 
were  fish  in  the  lake,  people  in  the  churches,  and  grapes 
on  the  vines.  .  .  .     To-day,  you  may  look  for  them.  ..." 

"  That's  true,"  said  Sergeant  Delessert.  "  The  fishing 
is  not  nearly  so  good  as  when  I  was  a  boy." 

"Is  it  because  we're  growing  more  stupid,  or  because 
the  fish  are  getting  cleverer?"  asked  Vidoudez,  but  the 
question  remained  unanswered. 

In  spite  of  these  pessimistic  remarks,  fish  accumulated 
in  the  wicker  baskets.  The  distant  chiming  of  a  clock 
came  floating  across  the  water;  an  express  train  rushed 
along  the  side  of  the  Lake,  throwing  behind  it  on  the 
still  air  its  pennon  of  white  smoke.  Midday.  They 
unpacked  the  luncheon  basket.  The  corks  flew.  The 
bread,  the  ham,  the  cheese,  the  fruit  seemed  more  de- 


POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR  23 

licious  than  usual,  eaten  like  this  away  from  the  busy 
world.  ...  A  Lake  steamer  passed,  gay  with  multi- 
coloured sunshades.  An  orchestra  was  playing  on  board, 
and  the  waves  in  the  wash  of  the  steamer  seemed  to 
dance  to  the  measure  of  the  waltz  that  was  being  played. 
With  an  impulse  of  joyous  good-fellowship,  Potterat 
raised  his  glass  and  drank  to  the  health  of  all  these 
unknown  good  people.     He  shouted: 

"  Here's  to  your  very  good  health  !  .  .  .  Hurrah  for 
Switzerland  !  .  .  .     Hurrah  for  the  Canton  de  Vaud  ! .  .  ." 

No  one  replied. 

"  Uncivil  brutes  !  some  of  these  foreigners.  ...  If 
we  wished  we  could  kick  them  all  out.  ..." 

"  My  friend,"  said  Vidoudez,  M  kindly  feelings  and 
politeness  are  out  of  fashion  now.  The  other  day  there 
was  a  party  of  us  at  the  Rochers  de  Naye,  and  we  had 
intended  to  sing  '  Hail,  glaciers  sublime  !'  at  the  rising 
of  the  sun,  but  I'm  blest  if  we  hadn't  got  to  be  quiet. 
.  .  .  It's  not  the  thing,  nowadays,  it  appears.  It  is 
only  on  the  Lake,  two  miles  or  more  out,  that  one  can 
begin  to  feel  at  home." 

Everyone  gave  his  opinion,  and  various  suggestions 
were  made  for  dealing  with  a  situation  that  one  of  them 
characterized  as  '  past  all  bearing.'  ...  At  sunset,  they 
came  back  to  the  shore,  hearts  and  eyes  alike  filled  with 
the  exquisite  peace  and  beauty  of  the  Lake. 

As  soon  as  he  got  home,  Potterat  emptied  his  basket 
on  the  kitchen  table,  and  seizing  a  fish  by  the  tail,  he 
threw  it  to  Mi-Fou.  "  Here,  little  one,  eat  that  and  get 
strong." 

December  at  last  came  round.  Belisaire,  in  red 
woollen  gloves,  covered  the  salads  with  dead  leaves. 
One  morning  everything  was  covered  with  snow.  The 
bran,  mixed  with  hot  water,  that  he  was  carrying  to  the 
fowl-house,  smoked  in  the  frozen  air.     Under  its  coating 


24  POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR 

of  ice,  the  little  brook  sang  no  longer,  and  some  snow- 
flakes  lingered  in  Belisaire's  beard. 

Carlo,  now  six,  was  given  a  sledge  for  a  Christmas 
present.    From  that  moment  he  had  only  one  idea: 
"  Father,  let's  go  luging.  ..." 

For  thirty  years,  first  as  policeman,  then  as  superin- 
tendent, Potterat  had  been  down  on  lugers  and  sliders, 
a  race  dreaded  by  old  ladies  and  by  busy  people  in  a 
hurry.  Was  he  now  in  his  old  age  to  join  the  ranks  of 
these  disturbers  of  the  public  peace  ?  Also  there  were 
other  considerations.     Potterat  said  to  himself: 

"  The  last  time  you  went  luging,  it  was  at  Bioley- 
Orjulaz,  in  1870,  the  year  when  you  got  engaged.     In 
those  days,  you  were  supple  and  quick  on  your  feet, 
smart  and  lively  and  young,  and  as  light  as  a  feather. 
.  .  .  The  heavier  one  is,  the  faster  the  luge  goes.  .  .  . 
You'll  be  going  over  the  gasometer,  if  you  don't  look 
out.  .  .  ." 
One  evening,  however,  he  decided: 
"  Get  your  luge,  Carlo,  and  we'll  go." 
They  joined  the  stream  of  lugers;  Englishmen  in  white 
caps,  slim  young  girls  in  bright-coloured  jerseys,  boys, 
shop  assistants,  cooks  with  untidy  hair,  and  Bigarreau, 
and  the  pirate-like  boatmen  of  Ouchy,  and  his  comrades 
of  the  brass  band,  and  even  Belisaire,  a  little  tipsy,  who 
came  down  the  slope  on  a  packing-case,  which  made  a 
noise  like  heavy  artillery  charging  down  a  hard  road.  .  .  . 
All  ages,  all  types  of  humanity  went  up  and  down  in 
the   giddy   procession,   shouting,   laughing,   yelling,    all 
intoxicated  by  rapid  motion  in  the  clear  frosty  air  which 
stung  their  cheeks. 

"  Off  we  go  !"  yelled  Potterat,  fired  with  enthusiasm. 
.  .  .  "  It's  quite  easy.  If  we  run  too  much  to  the  left, 
you  must  stick  your  right  heel  down;  if  we  go  to  the 
right,  stick  your  left  heel  down.  Now,  are  you  ready  ? 
Gp  I" 


POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR  25 

"  But  I  can't  sit  down  properly/'  complained  Carlo. 
"  There's  not  enough  room." 

"  Oh,  don't  talk  so  much.  .  .  .  Cling  on  anyhow  .  .  . 
we're  off.  ..." 

What  a  pace !  With  a  cloud  of  light  snow  encircling 
them  like  a  halo. 

"  One  can't  see  anything  clearly,"  said  Potterat. 
"  Look  out !  Look  out !"  he  yelled.  .  .  .  His  ava- 
lanche upset  at  the  next  turning.  They  clutched 
wildly  at  the  ground  with  the  nails  of  their  shoes 
but  to  no  purpose.  Over  went  father  and  son,  in- 
extricably mixed  up  with  each  other,  into  a  field  of 
cabbages,  where  they  found  themselves  at  length  sitting 
in  a  snowdrift. 

"  Bother  !"  shouted  Potterat.  "  We  were  going  all 
right,  only  we  couldn't  see  properly.  .  .  .  But  I  know 
the  way  of  it  now.  In  going  round  a  turn,  you  must 
just  hug  the  slope,  then  lean  away  from  the  turn,  then 
a  touch  of  the  heel  on  the  right,  a  lurch  to  the  left, 
and  the  corner  is  rounded.  .  .  .  Now  off  we  go 
again.  ..." 

They  tried  again,  facing  the  landscape.  A  shock,  a 
rapid  whirl,  and  they  brought  up  against  the  foot  of  a 
street  lamp,  in  the  arms  of  an  English  girl. 

"  People  who  go  in  for  luging  ought  to  know  how  to 
guide  a  luge,"  said  Potterat,  with  a  cynical  politeness. 
"  It  isn't  the  thing  to  crash  into  people  from  behind 
like  that,  people  who  are  going  along  interfering  with 
nobody.  ..." 

"  A-ow  !"  the  young  miss  tried  to  apologize.  Then 
Potterat  was  magnanimous: 

"  All  right,  all  right !  .  .  .  but  don't  do  it  again.  .  .  . 
It's  against  the  rules.  .  .  .     Play  the  game,  please.  ..." 

After  that,  Potterat  managed  his  own  luge  in  a  most 
finished  style.  His  eyes  starting  almost  out  of  his  head, 
his  mouth  wide  open,  barking  out  excited  directions 


26  POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR 

every  moment,  now  addressing  himself  to  the  piste,  now 
to  the  luge,  vituperating  it  when  it  threatened  to  skid, 
he  steered  with  energetic  heels,  pushed  it  on  with  his 
chest,  reined  it  in  with  his  stomach,  at  any  rate  in  in- 
tention, if  not  in  fact.  Arrived  at  the  bottom  of  the 
course,  he  was  openly  triumphant : 

"Ah,  not  many  can  do  that  with  a  heavy  load." 

But  his  boasting  was  premature.  Full  speed  down 
the  piste  came  a  luge,  and  crashed  into  him,  chest  to 
chest,  the  arms  of  the  runaway  clutching  wildly  the  first 
thing  they  encountered ;  they  spun  round  in  a  mad  waltz, 
broken  off  abruptly  by  the  trunk  of  a  tree.  Then  a 
man  every  whit  as  fat  as  Potterat,  out  of  breath,  in- 
dignant, rose  from  the  snow  in  which  he  was  buried. 
Ready  for  the  encounter,  Potterat,  flat  on  his  stomach, 
jumped  up  with  a  quickness  of  which  one  would  hardly 
have  believed  him  capable.  Suddenly,  both  gave  a  great 
shout  of  laughter,  as  Potterat  recognized  Bigarreau,  and 
Bigarreau  recognized  Potterat.  Potterat  was  the  first 
to  recover  himself : 

"  My  poor  Bigarreau !  Without  our  padding  we 
should  have  been  done  for.  .  .  .  There  is  nothing  like 
a  good  behind  for  softening  a  shock  ...  it  acts  like  a 
spring.  .  .  ." 

About  ten  o'clock  Madame  Potterat  came  to  look  for 
Carlo.  Childhood  has  no  secrets.  Running  to  meet  his 
mother,  he  shouted  with  immense  delight : 

"  We  were  upset  three  times  .  .  .  once  by  ourselves, 
once  with  an  English  girl,  and  once  with  ..." 

"  Bah  !"  said  Potterat  authoritatively.  "  What  of 
that  ?     It's  the  best  lugers  who  come  the  croppers  !" 

The  winter  was  a  long  one.  Twice  a  week  in  the 
evening,  leaving  his  wife  chatting  to  some  neighbours, 
or  buried  in  a  book,  Potterat  betook  himself  to  Etraz, 
where,  over  a  friendly  glass  or  two  of  the  wine  of  the 


POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR  27 

country,  a  few  friends  were  in  the  habit  of  meeting. 
Customs  officials,  postmen,  retired  civil  servants  of  the 
lower  ranks  rathered  round  the  little  tables,  and  with 
shrewd  common  sense,  not  unmixed  with  sarcasm, 
reviewed  the  events  of  the  hour.  At  these  times,  they 
remade  the  map  of  Europe,  they  addressed  imaginary 
remonstrances,  of  a  somewhat  primitive  frankness,  to 
the  great  ones  of  the  earth;  they  brought  out  to  the 
light  of  day  the  secrets  of  the  Chancelleries,  discussed 
openly  the  plots  of  the  various  diplomats,  and  their 
supposed  motives. 

"  No  one  can  tell  me  anything  new  about  politics," 
declared  Potter  at.  "  I  can  always  read  between  the 
lines;  I  study  these  questions;  I  spot  their  significant 
silences;  ...  I  look  for  the  motives  that  are  behind 
their  actions,  and  I  can  generally  find  them.  .  .  .  When 
an  Emperor  goes  about  amongst  the  people  distributing 
presents  ...  a  watch  to  this  one,  a  diamond  pin  to 
that,  I  say  to  myself,  ■  So  the  lion-tamer  distributes 
lumps  of  sugar  to  his  beasts  before  he  makes  them  go 
through  their  tricks.     Now  look  out !  '  " 

Potterat's  opinion  carried  great  weight.  With  him 
there  were  no  surprises,  no  uncertainties,  no  opinions 
changing  with  every  breath  of  wind.  Consistently  and 
always,  he  was  opposed  to  strikes,  which  upset  society 
and  increased  the  cost  of  living;  against  the  circulation 
of  motor-cars  on  Sundays;  against  the  hotels,  and  the 
huge  blocks  of  flats,  which  brought  crowds  of  people,  as 
he  used  to  say,  coming  and  going  like  doves  round  about 
a  dovecot ;  against  Socialism,  against  Anarchy,  against 
Women's  Suffrage.  .  .  . 

"  A  woman's  place  is  in  the  home.  Knitting,  sewing, 
bringing  up  children,  cooking  .  .  .  that's  her  sphere.  .  .  . 
We  men  will  look  after  all  the  rest.  ..." 

And  as  the  sum  of  all  his  remarks,  Potterat  would 
freely  give  his  friends  his  recipe  for  happiness : 


28  POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR 

"It  is  these  enormous  buildings  of  six  and  eight 
stories  and  more  which  are  pouring  folly  and  madness 
into  the  world.  Man  was  never  intended  to  exist  in 
little  pigeon  holes.  In  the  long  run,  it  must  turn  his 
brain  upside  down,  head  over  heels,  or  rather  heels  over 
head.  No,  to  be  really  happy,  a  man  must  have  both 
his  feet  firmly  planted  on  the  earth,  wash  his  hands  in 
the  water  of  his  own  fountain,  grow  his  own  flowers  and 
vegetables,  pick  his  own  fruit  from  his  own  trees,  enjoy 
the  fruit  of  his  own  labours.  There  is  nothing  better 
than  that/' 

Forgetting  for  the  moment  their  flat  landings,  with  the 
mats  before  each  door,  and  the  dingy  windows  lighting 
the  corridors,  Potterat's  hearers  felt,  as  it  were,  the 
freshness  of  a  garden  steal  into  their  hearts. 

When  the  Cathedral  clock  sent  out  on  the  night  twelve 
slow  strokes,  they  left  the  little  inn  where  they  had  their 
meetings.  Sometimes  a  few  insistent  shadows  would  dog 
their  footsteps  for  a  while,  and  then  the  group  would 
make  remarks  for  their  benefit : 

"  This  is  a  nice  sort  of  thing,"  Potterat  would  protest. 
*  In  Turkey,  they  say,  women  are  never  allowed  to  go 
out  alone.  In  Central  Europe,  it's  the  men  who  will 
soon  not  be  able  to  go  out  without  a  chaperon.  These 
ladies  with  their  indiarubber  heels,  one  can't  hear  them 
coming.  They  creep  up  to  one  like  a  cat  after  sausages. 
...  In  my  young  days,  women  used  to  be  modest.  As 
for  me,  when  I  was  twenty  even,  I  was  as  innocent  as 
a  primrose.  And  when  I  was  courting  my  first  wife,  ay 
and  even  my  second,  I  used  to  blush  if  I  only  passed  her 
house.     But  to-day.  ..." 

On  other  evenings,  Schmid  and  his  wife  and  child 
would  perhaps  come  to  Eglantine  Cottage  for  the  evening. 
He,  stiff,  silent,  and  reserved  as  usual;  she,  a  devoted 
little  wife  and  mother;  the  child  a  fat  little  fellow,  with 
an  incredibly  red  head,  as  silent  and  reserved  almost  as 


POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR  29 

his  father.  After  they  went,  Potterat  always  indulged 
in  a  grumble: 

"  What  a  son-in-law  for  a  man  to  have  !  .  .  .  He 
doesn't  drink — he  doesn't  smoke — he  saves  every  penny, 
forsooth.  What  a  deadly  bore  of  a  fellow.  .  .  .  Nothing 
affable,  nothing  pleasant  and  agreeable,  nothing  com- 
fortable about  him.  ..." 

Of  all  his  favourite  words  and  phrases,  Potterat  liked 
the  word  '  comfortable '  best.  It  had  such  a  lot  of 
meaning,  it  expressed  so  much. 

In  February,  the  Brise  du  Lac  orchestra  gave  a  concert, 
in  the  big  hall  of  the  Cafe*  de  la  Navigation.  Anxious  to 
maintain  their  reputation,  Potterat,  Bigarreau,  Regamey, 
and  Bluebeard  had  frequent  rehearsals  of  their  parts  in 
the  hospitable  sitting-room  of  Eglantine  Cottage.  Listen- 
ing to  the  lively  music,  everyone  and  everything  seemed 
gay.  The  three  pictures,  representing  the  story  of  St. 
Genevieve,  were  reflected  in  the  brightly  polished  copper. 
Potterat 's  two  wives  seemed  to  smile  at  the  company 
from  the  depths  of  their  frames.  Mi-Fou,  lying  full  length 
under  the  sofa,  stretched  out  a  cautious  head,  his  ears 
flat  against  his  head.  Carlo  danced  gaily  round  the 
table,  and  Madame  Potterat  and  Belisaire,  sitting  behind 
the  little  iron  stove,  beat  time  with  heads  and  feet. 

"  That  ending  ought  to  be  a  little  more  rounded,  a 
little  softer,  with  a  touch  of  melancholy  in  it,"  said  the 
master  of  the  ceremonies,  "  after  the  high  note  let  out 
for  all  you're  worth,  well  marked,  swinging,  magnificent, 
the  sort  of  thing  that  grips  you  in  the  pit  of  the  stomach. 
The  first  phrase,  as  it  were,  is  solemn  and  slow,  like  church 
music;  the  second  is  like  a  march  to  victory.  .  .  .  Now 
then.  .  .  .  Wet  your  lips  first  .  .  .  (the  bottles  were  on 
the  table).  .  .  .  Are  you  ready  ?  At  three  all  begin. 
.  .  .  I'll  count  a  bar  first.  .  .  .     One,  two,  three.  .  .  ." 

Regamey,  who  played  an  instrument  with  an  enormous 


30  POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR 

bell  mouth,  took  the  bass  part,  and  lowed  and  bellowed 
with  tremendous  vigour,  descending  into  fathomless 
depths,  hanging  on  to  one  deep  cavernous  note  for  an 
eternity,  his  eyes  dilated,  his  cheeks  swollen,  a  triangle 
of  purple  veins  standing  out  upon  his  forehead.  With 
the  tubes  of  his  trombone,  which  he  stopped  to  empty 
frequently,  Bluebeard  nearly  swept  the  glasses  from  the 
table.  But  the  leading  parts  were  taken  by  Potterat  and 
Bigarreau.  Potterat,  who  loved  all  dance  music,  played 
with  immense  verve  and  vigour;  he  interpreted  the  mean- 
ing of  the  composer  (which  was  fairly  obvious,  it  must 
be  confessed),  with  sympathy  and  feeling,  letting  fall 
lightly  the  shower  of  chromatic  notes ;  at  times  his  cornet 
seemed  almost  to  laugh.  As  for  Bigarreau,  when  his 
turn  came  to  take  the  lead,  his  anxiety  to  do  his  part 
worthily  was  great.  It  was  really  very  funny  to  see  this 
big  fat  man,  with  his  broad  red  face,  scarlet  cheeks,  and 
fiercely  waxed  moustache,  pursing  up  a  tiny  little  mouth 
in  order  to  draw  from  his  absurd  little  flute  the  piercing 
sounds  which  soared  above  the  deeper  notes  of  the 
trombone,  the  final  note  losing  itself,  organ-like,  in  the 
ceiling. 

Then  silence  reigned  while  the  four  performers,  each 
with  his  nose  buried  in  a  glass,  awaited  the  verdict  of  the 
audience. 

N  That's  jolly  fine,"  murmured  Belisaire  at  last. 

"  There's  one  little  bit  there  that  always  makes  me 
want  to  cry,"  added  Madame  Potterat.  "  What  a  lovely 
thing  !    What  is  the  name  of  it  ?  .  .  ." 

"  The  Last  Rose." 

"  Who  is  the  composer  ?" 

"  Poschammer.  .  .  .  Pity  he  should  be  a  Frenchman, 
and  not  a  Swiss.  All  the  same,  he's  a  fellow  who 
knows  his  trade." 

Then  each  of  the  performers  was  complimented  in 
turn;  Regamey,  perhaps,  a  little  less  than  the  others, 


POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR  31 

because  he  was  one  of  those  modest  retiring  men  who 
are  only  praised  after  they  are  dead. 

When  the  concert  was  over  and  the  instruments  put 
back  in  their  cases  in  a  corner  of  the  room,  Mi-Fou 
doubtfully  emerged  from  his  retreat. 

"  Now  there's  a  real  good  judge  for  you.  ...  If  you 
play  a  false  note  he  closes  his  eyes.  .  .  .  When  you  are 
playing  particularly  fine  passages,  he  purrs  like  anything. 
.  .  .  How  many  people  there  are  of  whom  one  couldn't 
say  as  much.  I  tell  you  it  is  very  rare  to  find  anyone 
who  really  feels  good  music.  .  .  .  When  I  was  in  the 
Police,  I  used  to  have  to  go  pretty  often  to  the  band 
concerts,  in  the  service  of  public  order,  you  understand. 
.  .  .  My  word,  what  a  performance  !  Well,  you  could 
call  it  music  if  you  liked,  but  beyond  the  fact  that  the 
violin  bows  went  up  and  down  at  the  same  time,  and 
that  they  all  finished  together,  there  was  mighty  little 
music  about  it.  Nothing  but  sharps,  and  flats,  and 
naturals,  and  worrying  discords.  .  .  .  Frogs  and  mag- 
pies would  be  more  musical.  .  .  .  Say  what  you  will, 
that  is  the  music  of  neurasthenics,  of  the  dissipated  and 
decadent.  Music  that  is  popular  doesn't  trouble  itself 
with  all  these  twiddles  and  twistings.  ...  In  music,  as 
in  everything  else,  the  people's  word  is  law.  Now  we 
Swiss,  we  know  where  we  are;  when  we  like  a  thing  we 
say  so;  when  we  are  annoyed,  we  show  it;  when  we  are 
thirsty  we  drink.  .  .  .  But  these  people  who  fly  about 
day  and  night  in  motor-cars,  who  live  all  the  time  amidst 
tinsel  and  gilding,  who  lie  abed  late  in  the  morning,  and 
gad  about  till  midnight,  what  sort  of  music  do  you  think 
they  would  be  capable  of  appreciating  ?  .  .  .  The  kind 
of  music  a  monkey  would  like.  ...  Oh  no,  to  my  mind 
there  is  nothing  sweeter  than  Belisaire's  ocarina.  Go 
and  get  it,  Belisaire,  and  play  us  the  '  Pretty  Little  Boat 
Girl.'  " 

Very  soon  Belisaire's  thin  fingers  were  wandering  up 


32  POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR 

and  down  his  little  terracotta  instrument,  while  his  goat- 
like profile  lit  up  with  pleasure.  He  seemed  like  a  faun 
trying  to  charm  with  his  music  some  sportive  nymph. 
The  others  accompanied  him  with  voice  and  gesture : 

**  Pretty  little  boat  maiden, 

Leave  your  boat  awhile.  ..." 

"  Ah,  that's  the  sort  of  music  that  reaches  the  heart," 
said  Bigarreau. 

Eleven  o'clock  !  They  all  said  good-night,  and  for  a 
few  moments  a  pathway  of  rosy  light  streamed  out  from 
the  open  door  across  the  carpet  of  snow. 


CHAPTER  II 

At  eight  years  old,  Carlo  was  a  self-confident  young  man, 
with  critical  eyes  and  a  pert  little  nose,  greatly  absorbed 
in  the  manufacture  of  paper  aeroplanes.  As  he  dug, 
Potterat  noticed  the  occupation  of  his  son  and  heir, 
and  said  to  Belisaire: 

"  Nowadays,  the  boys  think  of  nothing  but  inventions. 
.  .  .  What  do  you  think  that  young  rascal  said  to  me 
yesterday  ?  '  When  I'm  grown  up  I'm  going  to  be  an 
aviator.  I'll  take  you  to  Berne  on  my  aeroplane  for  a 
thousand  francs.'  ...  Go  in  an  aeroplane,  indeed ! 
I'd  a  deal  rather  go  on  a  merry-go-round.  It's  astonish- 
ing to  me  how  different  boys  are  now,  from  what  they 
were  in  my  young  days.  And  it's  only  human  beings 
who  change  like  that.  Mi-Fou's  forefathers,  even  as  far 
back  as  the  one  that  climbed  into  Noah's  ark,  looked 
exactly  the  same,  and  had  the  same  tastes.  It's  only 
we  who  are  so  tormented  by  the  devil." 

School  accounted  for  six  hours  of  Carlo's  day,  but  the 
moment  he  was  free,  as  Belisaire  said,  '  he  drove  them 
all  crazy.'  He  certainly  was  a  mischievous  boy;  he 
respected  nothing  and  no  one,  delighted  in  imitating  the 
groans,  the  hobbling  steps,  and  the  weird  ways  and 
gestures  of  the  old  man.  If  Belisaire  climbed  into  the 
loft  over  the  shed,  Carlo  invariably  took  away  the  ladder; 
he  hid  the  watering-pots,  the  hay-forks,  etc.,  behind  the 
laurels,  and  great  was  his  joy  if  he  succeeded  in  produc- 
ing a  stream  of  unparliamentary  language  from  the  old 
man's   toothless  mouth.  .  .  .     Occasionally,   too,   there 

33  3 


34  POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR 

were  sounds  of  combat  .  .  .  the  two  mothers  ran  to  the 
scene.  .  .  .  Uncle  Carlo  was  thrashing  Nephew  Louis. 
.  .  .  And  once,  when  a  Russian  Baroness  was  being 
escorted  round  the  garden,  the  young  scamp  frankly 
asked  her:  "Madame,  why  do  you  put  flour  on  your 
face  ?"  After  she  had  gone,  his  father  boxed  his  ears 
and  shut  him  up  in  the  cellar  to  punish  him,  and  then, 
out  of  breath,  sitting  on  the  chintz-covered  sofa,  he  let 
himself  go. 

"I'll  tell  you  what  it  is,"  he  grumbled  to  his  wife, 
"  that  boy  simply  laughs  at  us.  His  one  idea  is  to  get 
on  ahead  ...  he  looks  on  us  as  slow-coaches,  old- 
fashioned  lumber,  quite  out  of  date.  .  .  .  The  conceit 
of  the  shrimp !  With  a  son  like  that,  we  shan't  starve, 
at  any  rate,  in  our  old  age." 

"  Well,  the  world  is  moving  on.  You  wouldn't  have 
him  left  behind,  would  you  ?  And  each  generation  is 
different  from  the  last  in  many  ways,  don't  you  think 
so?" 

Potterat  was  silent.  He  was  thinking  that  kidney 
beans,  green  peas,  etc.,  always  produced  others  like 
themselves. 

"  Well,  if  only  it  were  a  change  for  the  better,  I 
shouldn't  so  much  mind,"  he  grudgingly  admitted. 

But  to  his  mind,  the  century  was  all  wrong:  its  archi- 
tects, its  contractors,  loudly  proclaimed  the  fact.  All 
round  Eglantine  Cottage,  long,  rigidly  straight  avenues 
were  being  opened  up,  the  old  walls  were  coming  down, 
the  old  trees  were  being  levelled  to  the  ground;  they  were 
talking  of  widening  the  quay  by  the  Lake,  and  even  of 
converting  the  old  cemetery  into  building  ground. 

New  shops  were  opening  everywhere.  And  on  Sundays, 
motor-cars  raced  along  the  roads,  God  knows  whence  or 
whither,  linked  to  each  other  by  thick  clouds  of  dust, 
and  emitting  unearthly  hoots  and  bellowings  like  those 
of  some  tortured  animal. 


POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR  35 

"A  lot  of  idiots  !"  muttered  Potterat,  "  and  those 
avenues  .  .  .  and  now  these  flats.  .  .  ." 

A  high  building,  half  hidden  by  the  pine-trees,  had 
for  some  little  time  past  obscured  the  view  of  the  town 
spires.  From  a  tennis  court  surrounded  by  high  trellis 
work,  balls  were  continually  flying  over  and  falling 
amongst  Potterat's  cabbages  and  carrots.  Then  tall 
youths  in  white  flannels  would  appear  and  scale  the 
fence.  From  a  corner  Belisaire,  too  timid  to  tackle  these 
smart  young  foreigners,  would  mutter  and  grumble. 

But  at  last  Potterat  lost  his  temper,  irritated  by  the 
careless  unconcern  and  lack  of  politeness  of  these  sports- 
men, and  one  day,  as  a  young  Englishman  with  immense 
feet  returned  from  an  unsuccessful  hunt  after  a  ball, 
Potterat  came  out  on  him  from  a  side  path. 

"  Good-day,  Monsieur  !  .  .  .  Now  I  want  to  explain 
to  you  that  these  vegetables  represent  quite  a  lot  of  work, 
and  time,  and  patience,  and  money  too.  Now  do  you 
think  that  trampling  over  them  with  a  steam  roller 
like  yourself  is  going  to  improve  my  chances  of  a 
good  harvest  ?  .  .  .  It's  people  of  your  sort  who  make 
life  impossible.  .  .  .  And  then,  too,  the  rudeness.  .  .  . 
What  would  you  say  if  I  kept  chucking  carrots  and  turnips 
over  into  your  tennis  court,  and  then  coming  and  inter- 
rupting your  game  to  pick  them  up  ?  .  .  .  No,  let 
everyone  keep  to  his  own  ground.  ...  I  don't  want  to 
be  disagreeable,  you  know,  I'm  only  explaining  my 
point  of  view.  ...  On  the  other  hand,  I'm  not  un- 
reasonable. .  .  .  Let's  meet  each  other  in  the  matter. 
.  .  .  Tell  your  companions  they  can  come  here  once  a 
year,  in  the  early  spring,  for  instance,  and  you  can  get 
all  your  balls  at  once.  .  .  .  But  to  keep  on  climbing 
over  my  fence  at  intervals  all  the  time  won't  do,  you 
know.  The  rights  of  property  are  sacred  here.  ...  So 
I'll  be  much  obliged  if  you  will  just  kindly  take  your- 
self off !" 


36  POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR 

The  young  Englishman  smiled  at  Potterat.  Something 
in  the  pleasant  face  and  Pickwickian  paunch  of  his 
interlocutor  evidently  appealed  to  him.  He  took  himself 
off,  as  he  had  been  requested  to  do.  And  thenceforth, 
when  a  ball  found  its  way  into  the  vegetables,  Potterat, 
a  true  sportsman,  threw  it  back  to  the  tennis  court. 
Sometimes  only,  when  he  was  in  a  protesting  mood 
against  all  this  encroaching  civilization,  and  had  a  spade 
in  his  hand,  he  would  dig  a  hole  and  bury  the  offending 
object  with  energetic  completeness,  muttering  to  himself 
as  he  did  so : 

"  Half  the  time,  when  I  send  back  their  balls,  they 
don't  even  trouble  themselves  to  say  '  thank  you.'  I'm 
not  going  to  slave  myself  to  death  to  oblige  under- 
bred people  like  that.  .  .  .  Good  idea  !  I'll  bury 
every  third  one  I  find.  They'll  help  to  manure  the 
ground." 

Meanwhile  the  encroachments  of  the  town  on  the 
country  tended  to  attach  Potterat  more  closely  than 
ever  to  his  little  corner.  He  made  himself  a  centre  of 
resistance,  a  citadel,  as  it  were,  against  the  enemy,  a  last 
stronghold  of  the  receding  country. 

"The  small  town,  that's  all  right.  But  the  little 
town  aping  a  city  I  can't  stand  at  any  price.  ..." 

So  Potterat,  to  fortify  his  resolution,  walked  about  his 
domain  with  a  proud  nonchalance.  He  would  talk  to 
his  fowls  sometimes : 

"  How  do  you  like  your  cock  ?  .  .  .  Is  he  nice  to 
you  ?  .  .  .  Is  he  polite  ?  .  .  .  I  hope  you  appreciate 
him.  He  is  the  most  beautiful  cock  for  twenty  miles 
round:  a  pure-bred  Brahma.  .  .  .  Just  look  at  those 
beautiful  feather  trousers  which  reach  almost  down  to 
his  heels.  .  .  .  Yes,  old  boy,  you  cost  me  ten  shillings. 
You  look  very  dignified  and  severe,  and  I  expect  you 
have  to  be  so  to  keep  order  amongst  your  flock.  .  .  .  Your 
very  crow  sounds  peremptory:  there's  no  hesitation  about 


POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR  37 

it,  no  going  back  on  the  note,  no  breaking  and  ending  up 
on  a  high  note  like  a  hen's.  No,  it  is  clear  and  strong 
...  no  trifling  with  it.  .  .  .  Ah,  well,  there  will  be  no 
stew-pot  for  you.  When  you  die,  in  a  green  old  age,  I 
shall  bury  you  at  the  foot  of  the  laurel-trees.  There  are 
some  animals  that  we  must  treat  like  Christians.  ..." 

"  Oughtn't  you  to  buy  him  some  more  hens  ?"  asked 
Belisaire. 

"  No,  no;  fifteen  are  quite  enough  for  him.  If  there 
are  too  many  of  them,  some  of  them  will  try  to  shirk 
laying.  .  .  ." 

Wiping  his  face  with  his  sleeve,  Belisaire  acknowledged 
the  justice  of  this  remark.  Some  indistinct  words  issued 
from  the  tangles  of  his  whitish-brown  beard,  which  re- 
minded one  of  a  frosted  bush  and  of  thatch. 

"  Those  tomatoes  are  doing  well,"  he  said.  "  They're 
beginning  to  turn  red  already.  Schmid's  are  still  quite 
green.  .  .  .  Good  thing  too  !"  The  old  man  shared 
his  master's  dislike  of  Schmid,  the  enemy  of  *all 
imagination  and  fancy,  the  perfect  type  of  the  silent 
miser. 

Madame  Potterat  worked  hard,  kept  her  house  spot- 
less, did  her  cooking  with  brilliance  and  success,  and 
when  her  work  was  done,  she  made  and  trimmed  hats 
for  herself,  sitting  in  the  deep  window  seat.  New  hats 
were  her  one  luxury. 

"  When  I  was  in  the  trade,"  she  would  explain,  "  the 
fashions  changed  in  the  spring,  and  again  in  the  autumn. 
But  nowadays  they  change  every  three  weeks  almost. 
One  is  ridiculously  out-of-date  in  no  time." 

Her  husband  poised  a  hat  on  the  tips  of  his  fingers 
and  regarded  it  in  silence  for  a  moment : 

"  I  don't  know  whether  fashion  ought  to  be  reason- 
able, or  reason  fashionable.  But  certainly  it  should  be 
one  or  the  other,  I  should  think.  Heads  are  round,  yet 
they  put  triangular  hats  on  them.    And  these  sugar-loaf 


38  POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR 

things  now,  they're  all  right  for  idiots,  perhaps,  but  not 
for  a  sensible  woman  like  you.  ..." 

"  Oh,  get  along,  David  !  You  wouldn't  like  to  see 
your  wife  looking  dowdy,  and  everyone  laughing  at 
her,  would  you  ?  .  .  ." 

Some  friends,  '  dressed  all  in  their  best,'  came  to  ask 
Madame  Potterat  if  she  was  coming  to  a  regatta  that 
was  being  held.  Why  not  ?  It  was  exquisite  June 
weather.  Everybody  wanted  to  be  out  of  doors.  In 
their  smart  white  frocks,  the  little  Mottaz  girls  held  them- 
selves very  straight. 

"  Are  we  going  to  the  regatta  ?    How  jolly  I"  cried  Carlo. 

Sitting  on  his  bench  in  the  shadow  of  the  trellis-work, 
Potterat  was  dozing. 

"  Aren't  you  coming  too  ?  Do  come  along,"  called  the 
party  to  him.     "  We  are  all  going  to  the  fete." 

"  To  the  fete  ?  Oh,  it's  too  hot.  And  besides,  I'm 
not  dressed." 

Between  his  half-closed  eyelids  he  watched  them  going 
off,  Carlo  in  a  sailor  suit,  with  a  man-o'-war  cap  on 
which  was  the  name  '  Majestic  '  in  gold  letters;  the  post- 
man's daughters,  got  up  like  ballet  girls;  the  older  women, 
all  sails  set,  with  Deflowered  and  beplumed  hats. 

"  Off  you  go  !"  said  Potterat  to  himself.  "  For  the 
young  ones  it's  something  new  and  exciting,  but  for  you 
older  people  it's  simply  silly  playing  the  hoyden  like  that. 
...  It's  all  very  well  for  a  girl  to  have  a  good  time 
and  amuse  herself  from  eighteen  to  twenty-five,  but 
after  that  she  ought  to  settle  down.  ...  At  your  age  " 
— he  apostrophized  his  absent  wife  and  her  companions — 
"  narrow  skirts,  and  frills,  and  furbelows,  are  no  longer 
becoming.  You  have  to  lace  in  a  bit  too  much,  and  the 
more  you  lace  in,  the  more  you  bulge  out  somewhere 
else.  ..."  And  Potterat  dozed  off  again,  the  murmur 
of  the  fountain  mingling  with  his  dreams.  Presently, 
awakened  by  the  noise  of  two  ducks  quarrelling,  he 


POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR  39 

looked  out  over  the  country  he  loved  so  much:  the 
peaceful  communion  of  the  mountains,  the  Lake,  the  sky, 
and  of  the  trees  laden  with  their  golden  fruit,  the  warm, 
happy,  summer  silence.  .  .  .  Potterat  hummed  to  him- 
self a  song  learnt  at  school,  in  praise  of  his  beloved 
country.  And  presently  he  betook  himself,  as  he  did 
every  Sunday  afternoon,  to  the  old  cemetery,  the  prin- 
cipal path  of  which  commanded  a  view  of  the  fields  and 
meadows  sloping  down  to  the  Lake  edge.  The  key  of 
the  enclosure  had  been  given  into  his  charge — a  needless 
precaution  indeed,  since  no  one  had  the  slightest  inclina- 
tion to  climb  the  wall,  or  break  through  the  worm-eaten 
fence.  The  casual  crowd  left  this  abode  of  ancient  grief 
to  the  blackbirds,  the  lizards,  to  Potterat,  to  the  joy  of 
summer.  A  wilderness  of  flowers  overspread  the  whole 
place.  Potterat  wandered  about  paternally,  protectingly, 
with  his  hands  clasped  behind  his  back,  amongst  the 
graves  of  fishermen,  washer-women,  and  other  humble 
folk  who  lay  side  by  side  there,  under  the  climbing  roses 
which  had  gone  back  to  the  wild  parent  stock,  the  per- 
fume-laden summer  air,  the  humming  of  bees  and  gnats. 
.  .  .  Breaking  in  on  the  peaceful  silence,  the  sounds  of 
the  distant  fete  came,  up  the  hillside. 

"  The  dead  sleep,  the  living  drink  and  dance,"  mused 
Potterat  aloud.    ."  What  a  strange  thing  life  is  !" 

Presently  he  stopped  before  a  little  grave  and  tomb- 
stone under  a  cypress  tree;  wistaria  climbed  over  it, 
and  bees  clustered  round  the  gay  blue  blossoms. 
■  Florence  Smith,  aged  eighteen  years,'  he  read. 

"  An  English  girl.  .  .  .  Extraordinary  idea  to  come 
so  far  from  one's  own  country  to  die.  ..."  Potterat 
mused  awhile,  in  company  with  the  crickets  and  grass- 
hoppers, upon  the  sad  romance  revealed  by  the  little 
stone,  until  the  music  of  a  gay  waltz,  borne  upward 
on  the  breeze,  brought  him  back  to  his  habitual  joyous 
love  of  life. 


40  POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR 

"  Eighteen  years  old  !  .  .  .  It  ought  to  be  forbidden 
to  die  at  that  age."  .  .  . 

Potterat  continued  his  leisurely  ramble  homewards, 
noticing,  as  he  went  along,  the  state  of  his  neighbours' 
gardens.  As  he  was  passing  Schmid's  garden,  a  slight 
noise  made  him  look  over  the  hedge.  Schmid  was 
gathering  strawberries,  and  Louise  was  busy  picking 
peas. 

"  You'd  better  take  care  I"  he  called  out  to  them 
teasingly.  "  '  Work  done  on  Sunday  brings  bad  luck  on 
Monday  !'  you  know." 

Belisaire  was  playing  his  ocarina.  The  fowls  sprawled 
full-length  in  the  hot  sun;  the  Brahma  cock  alone  stood 
upright,  with  his  head  on  one  side,  sending  a  defiant 
crow  up  to  the  larks. 

"  Don't  be  so  jealous !"  said  his  master  to  him.  '*  I 
don't  like  jealous  people.  There  are  some  animals  made 
for  singing,  and  some  made  to  crow  in  a  poultry-yard. 
Everyone  to  his  trade.  ..." 

Then  he  went  to  his  favourite  seat  under  the  vine- 
trellis.  Sunbeams  reflected  from  the  basin  of  the  fountain 
chased  each  other  over  the  front  of  the  house,  and  up 
to  the  tiled  roof,  from  which  the  little  round  window 
kept  watch  over  the  country-side. 

•'  Potterat,  my  friend,"  said  he  to  himself,  "  you  don't 
know  how  lucky  you  are;  you  will  never  realize  it.  .  .  . 
The  swallows  for  tenants,  the  cabbages  for  neighbours, 
the  Lake  in  front  of  you  ...  no  gossiping  and  cackling, 
no  quarrels.  .  .  .  Are  they  any  happier  in  Paradise  ?  .  .  . 
Very  likely  not  as  happy,  for  they  can't  smoke  a  pipe 
there.  ..." 

Although  Potterat  did  not  rush  to  every  fete,  there 
were  some,  nevertheless,  that  he  seldom  missed.  As  he 
said  to  his  crony  Bluebeard: 

"  I  don't  care  to  gad  about  to  everything  that's  going, 
like  some  people,  who  rush  off  to  some  fete  or  other 


POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR  41 

every  Sunday,  tire  themselves  out,  swallow  a  lot  of  dust, 
and  then  wonder  why  they  feel  so  washed-out  and  done- 
up  on  the  Monday  morning.  No,  fetes  are  like  thunder- 
storms, a  few  real  good  ones  are  necessary,  but  not  too 
many.  .  .  .  And  besides,  I  like  to  know  what  I'm 
celebrating,  and  with  whom.  .  .  .  When  I  go  out  for 
the  day,  I  like  to  go  with  decent  sensible  people,  that 
one  knows  all  about  from  the  day  they  were  born,  their 
occupation,  their  ways  and  habits,  their  little  faults  even, 
the  circumstances  of  their  lives,  how  many  children  they 
have,  and  all  that.  .  .  .  Now,  what  I  like  best  of  all  is 
the  yearly  excursion  of  the  Choral  Society  and  the  Band. 
These  societies  aim  at  recreation  of  the  best  kind. 
.  .  .  What  can  you  have  better  than  singing  and  music 
to  cheer  you  up,  to  banish  care  and  worry,  to  lift  one's 
soul  up  to  the  heights,  as  a  member  of  the  State  Council 
said  the  other  day  in  his  speech,  and  stir  the  heart 
and  the  conscience  ?  I  am  looking  forward  like  a  school- 
boy to  this  excursion  to  Bouveret  on  the  10th  July,  and 
especially  this  year,  when  the  ladies  have  embroidered 
a  beautiful  new  flag  for  the  Society.  .  .  .  They  have 
asked  me  to  make  a  speech  of  thanks  for  it  after  the 
presentation.  ...  I  feel  as  nervous  about  it  as  I  did 
when,  as  Superintendent  of  the  Police,  I  had  to  give  the 
military  salute  to  the  King  of  England  at  the  railway 
station.  ...  A  speech  !  Well,  there  are  speeches  and 
speeches.  .  .  .  Anybody  can  say  a  few  platitudes  if  he 
is  called  upon,  but  to  make  a  good  speech,  to  get  home 
to  people's  feelings,  to  bring  in  neat  little  allusions,  and 
poetic  fancies,  and  to  finish  up  with  a  fine  peroration: 
that  isn't  so  easy,  you  know.  ..." 

"  When  I  get  up  to  make  a  speech,"  said  Bluebeard, 
"  I  say,  '  Here's  to  you,'  and  then  I'm  stumped.  .  .  . 
But  with  you  it  is  different.  You've  got  the  '  gift  of  the 
gab  ':  you  can  talk  splendidly." 

Potterat  drew  himself  up,  secretly  gratified: 


42  POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR 

"  Oh  well,  I  don't  know  about  splendidly.  .  .  but  I 
can  talk.  .  .  .     That  at  any  rate  is  something." 

For  the  next  week  or  so,  Potterat,  in  the  retirement  of 
the  shed,  to  an  audience  of  watering-pots,  rakes,  forks, 
and  a  scythe  like  a  big  note  of  interrogation,  rehearsed 
flowery  speeches,  in  which  allusions  to  Winkelried,  the 
mountains,  the  flag,  their  brave  soldiers  who  were  ready 
to  guard  the  frontiers,  jostled  each  other  in  tumultuous 
enthusiasm.  Then  in  the  cold  light  of  morning  all  his 
glowing  periods  vanished  like  smoke,  and  he  would  say : 

"  Belisaire,  you'll  have  to  make  this  speech  for  me.  .  .  ." 

Belisaire  would  laugh. 

"  Oh,  I'm  famous  at  speeches — without  words !  All 
my  words  are  inside  me.  .  .  ." 

"  Well,  I  don't  know  that  those  are  not  the  best  kind 
of  speeches  after  all." 

In  the  evenings,  too,  flute,  cornet,  trombone,  bassoon, 
made  the  whole  neighbourhood  lively  with  quick  steps, 
waltzes,  popular  patriotic  melodies,  enveloping  in  waves 
of  martial  sound  the  silent  trees,  until  an  hour  when 
only  the  silvery  bell  of  an  occasional  frog  would  usually 
be  heard. 

At  last  the  great  day  arrived.  The  dawn  was  just 
stealing  in,  over  a  smart  frock  spread  out  ready  to  put 
on,  on  frilled  petticoats  freshly  starched,  on  a  rose- 
trimmed  hat,  when  Potterat  awoke  and  stretched  him- 
self. 

u  Good  Heavens  !  .  .  .  Get  up,  get  up  !  .  .  .  It's 
late  !  .  .  .     We  shall  miss  the  boat !  .  .  ." 

The  whole  household  was  astir  at  once.  They  whistled 
and  sang  as  they  dressed.  Potterat,  clean-shaven  and 
smart,  was  finishing  the  packing  of  the  luncheon  basket 
when  a  shout  from  Carlo  startled  him : 

"  Uncle's  rabbit.  .  .  .  The  big  red  one.  ...  In  the 
cabbages.  ..." 

This    rabbit    of    Schmid's,    a    portly    creature,    em- 


POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR  43 

boldened  by  repeated  maternities,  was  an  old  offender, 
and  the  worst  of  her  depredations  was  that  she  ate 
only  the  hearts  of  the  cabbages.  .  .  .  Already  Belisaire 
was  hard  in  pursuit,  and  Potterat  followed  on  his 
heels,  guided  in  the  chase  by  the  little  white  nose  of 
the  creature,  constantly  in  a  different  place.  In  his 
bounds  and  plungings  after  the  rabbit  Potterat  crushed 
more  cabbages  than  the  enemy  had  ever  destroyed.  .  .  . 
A  yell  of  triumph,  and  Belisaire  emerged,  holding  the 
rabbit  by  the  ears,  and  a  few  minutes  later,  Potterat  was 
brandishing  the  animal  in  the  face  of  his  son-in-law, 
whose  crafty  eyes  sparkled. 

"  D n  the  beast !    Can't  you  put  a  muzzle  on  it  ? 

...  I  don't  grow  cabbages  to  feed  your  menagerie  of 
rabbits.  ...  If  you  don't  want  to  quarrel  with  me 
you'll  have  to  look  after  them  a  little  better.  I  warn  you, 
the  very  next  time  I  catch  that  creature  in  my  vegetables, 
I'll  fetch  her  a  blow  on  the  back  of  the  head  that  will 
send  her  to  kingdom  come  to  eat  carrots  there,  if  she  can 
find  any." 

Schmid,  without  uttering  a  word,  took  delivery  of  his 
full-paunched  rabbit. 

"  Still  in  your  slippers !  .  .  ."  exclaimed  Madame 
Potterat  on  the  return  of  the  hunter. 

V  Well,  I  can't  let  these  rabbits  have  it  all  their  own 
way  in  the  garden." 

Out  of  breath  he  bent  down  to  lace  up  his  boots.  But 
fat  men  have  difficulties  of  which  the  thin  know  nothing. 
.  .  .  They  can't  see  beyond  the  top  buttons  of  their 
waistcoats,  for  instance.  .  .  .  His  fingers  fumbled  help- 
lessly, the  lace  knotted  itself  up,  he  pulled  here  and  there 
.  .  .  the  lace  broke  with  a  little  decisive  click. 

"  Damn  !  .  .  .  Rotten  stuff!  It's  easy  to  tell  what 
country  that  comes  from.  .  .  .  Might  as  well  try  to 
lace  one's  boots  with  a  strand  of  bindweed." 

At  last,  however,  fully  dressed  from  top  to  toe,  Potterat 


44  POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR 

opened  the  door  to  join  the  others,  when  a  sudden  idea 
stopped  him: 

'{  My  glass  !  .  .  .    Where  is  my  field-glass  ?  .  .  ." 

"  Oh,  come  along,  do.  .  .  .  Bigarreau  and  his  wife 
started  ten  minutes  ago.  ..." 

M  I  don't  care  a  hang  for  Bigarreau  or  his  wife.  .  .  . 
I  want  my  field-glass.  .  .  ." 

"  Do  come." 

"Where  is  it?" 

"  Come  along.  ..." 

"  No,  I  won't.  I  won't  go  at  all  if  you  keep  on  much 
longer.  .  .  .  What's  the  good  of  having  a  field-glass 
if  I  can't  have  it  with  me  when  I  want  it  ?  .  .  .  I'm 
not  going  without  it  .  .  .  not  if  it  takes  me  all  day  to 
find  it.  .  .  ." 

Carlo  whispered  a  word  to  Belisaire,  who  slipped  out, 
climbed  the  ladder  into  the  stable  loft,  and  found  the 
glass  close  to  the  round  window  from  which  there  was 
such  a  glorious  view.  Mi-Fou  took  advantage  of  the 
confusion  to  insert  her  head  into  a  basket  and  to  seize 
and  drag  out  a  slice  of  ham,  with  which  she  hastily  re- 
treated under  a  cupboard.     There  was  a  fresh  uproar.  .  . . 

"Oh,  hang  it  all !  .  .  .  Here,  Mi-Fou!  r.  .  Good 
Heavens,  I  expect  he  has  eaten  up  all  the  sausages  ! 
.  .  .  We  shan't  have  anything  to  eat  the  whole  blessed 
day  !  .  .  .  The  devil !  .  .  .  Between  cats  and;  rabbits 
I'm  nearly  crazy.  .  .  .  Nice  sort  of  house  this  is.  .  .  . 
Here,  let's  get  away  .  .  .  before  something  else  happens. 
Off  we  go  !" 

They  had  to  run  for  the  boat.  Madame  Potterat 
uttered  little  plaintive  cries  as  she  ran,  her  smart  hat 
falling  over  one  ear;  Carlo  groaned  under  the  weight  of 
the  basket  of  food;  Potterat,  puffing  and  panting,  his 
cornet  held  in  the  crook  of  his  arm,  the  bag  of  bottles 
on  his  back,  uttered  broken-winded  sentences  from  time 
to  time,  in  a  dismal  voice: 


POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR  45 

"  Oh,  it's  no  use.  .  .  ..  We'll  never  do  it.  .  .  .  There 
goes  my  chance  of  making  the  speech.  ..." 

However,  as  they  turned  a  corner,  they  saw,  away 
below,  a  procession  filing  along,  the  band  at  its  head, 
the  flagstaff  towering  above  the  heads  of  the  crowd. 

"  Ah,  there  they  are  !  Good  luck  !  .  .  .  We  shall 
catch  them  up.  ..." 

With  a  final  effort  of  tired  muscles,  the  Potterats  gained 
on  and  joined  the  rest  of  the  party.  Triumphant,  his  face 
streaming  with  perspiration,  swelling  out  his  chest  with 
a  mighty  inhalation,  Potterat  raised  his  cornet  and  joined 
in  with  the  band  in  the  very  middle  of  a  bar.  .  .  .  '  That's 
better.  .  .  .  When  Potterat  comes  along,  he  wakes 
them  all  up.'  .  .  .  Potterat  guessed  that  something  of 
this  sort  was  being  said,  by  the  smiles  of  the  women, 
and  the  festive  looks  on  every  side.  He  expanded.  He 
felt  immensely  pleased  with  himself.  His  joyous  face 
shone  again  in  the  sunlight,  the  points  of  his  moustache 
rose  golden  against  the  blue  background. 

At  length  the  passengers  had  embarked;  the  usual 
crowd  of  clerks,  shopboys,  shopgirls,  Italians  with 
their  accordions,  bankers,  tourists,  shoemakers,  and  last, 
but  not  least,  the  Society  of  the  '  Brise  du  Lac,'  much 
enhanced  by  the  size  of  their  instruments.  The 
captain,  bronzed  and  smiling,  watched  them  from  the 
bridge. 

"  Put  your  hat  on  straight,  for  goodness'  sake,"  said 
Potterat  to  his  wife.  "  Naturally,  if  you  will  wear  a 
plume  of  that  size,  it's  bound  to  capsize  the  whole 
cargo." 

The  gangway  was  just  being  hauled  up  when  a  yell  of 
1  Stop  !'  was  heard,  and  Visinand,  the  clarionette  player 
of  the  band,  was  seen  running  madly  along  the  quay, 
his  instrument  case  tightly  clutched  under  a  thin  arm. 
Cheered  by  the  crowd,  sworn  at  by  the  pilot,  he  leaped 
over  the  widening  space  between  the  landing  stage  and 


46  POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR 

the  boat,  revealing  as  he  did  so  shins  clad  in  rose- 
coloured  cotton  socks. 

For  the  moment  Potterat,  as  well  as  his  friends,  felt 
themselves  overwhelmed  by  this  crowd  of  pale-faced 
clerks,  pert  girls  with  low-necked  blouses,  haughtily 
silent  English  tourists,  munching  Germans.  But  very 
soon  he  rose  to  the  dignity  of  his  green  and  white 
cockade,  and  felt  quite  indifferent  to  these  unsympa- 
thetic, bored,  distant,  or  vociferous  people.  '  This 
cockade,'  he  mused,  '  is  as  good  as  a  uniform.  It  is  a 
sort  of  reference.  It  says  to  these  dissipated  youths, 
these  globe-trotters:  "This  ribbon  with  the  Cantonal 
colours,  shows  that  we  are  a  Society,  that  we  are  known, 
that  we  have  a  stake  in  the  country,  we  have  families, 
we  pay  our  taxes.  .  .  .  We  are  now  going  to  dine  and 
drink  each  other's  healths  together.  .  .  .  That  is  a 
usual  thing  amongst  neighbours  and  friends  who  have 
lived  in  the  same  place  all  their  lives  and  hope  to  die 
there  eventually,  who  have  the  same  tastes  and  the  same 
interests,  who  are,  in  a  word,  Vaudois.  ...  If  we  are 
countryfolk,  and  look  it,  we  are  proud  of  it  ...  it's  a 
jolly  fine  country  !"  ' 

Quite  set  up  again  in  his  own  esteem,  Potterat  allowed 
his  eyes  to  roam,  with  a  proprietary  look,  over  the 
mountains  which  formed  the  background  to  this  medley 
of  human  beings.  Then  as  Sigrist,  the  conductor  of 
the  band,  gave  the  signal,  he  raised  the  instrument  to 
his  lips,  taking  a  long  breath. 

"Ready?  .  .  .  '  L'ExileV  .  .  .  A  little  slow  at  first, 
afterwards  more  agitated." 

Visinand  played  with  heart  and  soul.  This  piece  might 
have  been  specially  composed  for  his  clarionet,  which 
seemed  to  weep,  to  sigh,  to  sob,  in  turns.  The  trombone, 
the  bugles,  the  cornets,  seemed  only  an  accompaniment 
to  him.  .  .  .  The  sweet  melancholy  of  the  air  insinuated 
itself  into  all  hearts.     On  the  bank  the  walls,  the  poplars, 


POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR  47 

the  houses,  and  higher  up,  the  rounded  slopes  bristling 
with  vines,  glided  past  without  a  sound,  as  if  painted  on 
a  canvas,  stretched  between  earth  and  heaven,  which 
unrolled  itself  silently  as  they  went.  Presently  they 
drew  towards  the  bank.  ...     "'  Lutry  !  .  .  ." 

"  Come  along  with  us,"  shouted  Potterat  to  the  man 
on  the  landing  stage  who  caught  the  rope;  soon  they  were 
off  again. 

"  Look  here,  let's  play  '  Le  Gai  Chasseur,'  "  suggested 
Potterat  to  Sigrist. 

That  air  was  not  suited  to  the  clarionet,  so  Visinand 
subsided  into  limp  obscurity,  like  a  songless  linnet, 
whilst  Potterat  and  Bigarreau,  with  their  great  brass 
instruments  booming,  reminded  one  of  those  big  frogs 
gorged  with  flies  that  one  may  see  basking  in  the  sun  on 
a  water-lily  leaf. 

"  Aren't  they  enjoying  themselves,  those  two  old 
boys  ?"  .  .  .  whispered  one  of  Wertenschlag's  shopgirls 
to  Bonnard's  red-haired  clerk. 

The  wives  of  Bigarreau,  Potterat,  Regamey,  Pey- 
trequin,  etc.,  looked  scornfully  at  these  silly  girls  giggling 
behind  their  hands. 

"  Look  at  that  one,"  said  Madame  Bigarreau,  "  she 
gets  only  fifty  francs  a  month,  and  yet  she  puts  on  the 
airs  of  a  duchess." 

"  Lace  outside,  and  rags  underneath,"  added  Madame 
Peytrequin. 

"  Ah  well,  they're  young,"  murmured  Madame  Pot- 
terat indulgently. 

The  sea-gulls  skimmed  the  surface  of  the  waves,  the 
white  houses  glittered  in  the  shimmering  air.  The  very 
boat  funnel,  letting  off  steam,  seemed  to  be  panting 
with  holiday  joyousness.  An  Italian  played  some  chords 
on  his  accordion,  whereupon  one  of  the  shopgirls,  drawing 
her  transparent  scarf  from  her  shoulders,  began  to 
pirouette  with  her  young  man.     On  the  inspiration  of 


48  POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR 

the  moment,  Potterat  hummed  to  himself  a  line  or  two 
from  one  of  his  favourite  songs, 

"  Beautiful  Lake,  so  vast,  so  blue: 

May  we  die,  as  we've  lived,  in  sight  of  you.  ..." 

The  rest  took  it  up,  and  grave  as  judges,  in  order  to  get 
out  the  deep  notes  properly,  the  men  buried  their  chins 
in  their  collars,  and  the  women  directed  the  high  notes 
towards  heaven.  A  foreigner  wearing  a  green  hat  with 
a  cock's  feather  opened  his  Baedeker  with  a  bored  air. 
How  bright  and  gay  everything  looked  in  the  sunlight. 
Presently  they  approached  the  bank  again.  Houses 
and  spires  became  clearly  visible,  a  loop  in  a  winding 
road,  and — the  glory  of  the  country — the  vineyards, 
intersected  with  their  low  walls,  hung  over  the  blue 
mirror  of  the  Lake.  With  proudly  swelling  heart, 
Potterat  sent  his  song  up  to  the  mountain-tops,  as  if 
addressing  himself  to  them.  And  something  of  their 
grandeur  entered  into  his  heart. 

"  Montreux  !  "  .  .  .  Here  all  their  fellow-passengers 
got  off,  the  clerks  and  shop  assistants,  the  befrilled 
maidens,  the  Italians  with  their  accordions,  the  silent 
English  folk,  the  German  young  men  with  their  feathered 
hats  and  their  green  suits. 

Off  again. 

"  Thank  goodness  !  .  .  .  They're  off  to  the  Rochers 
de  Naye,  or  to  the  Chateau  de  Chillon,  or  to  the  Kursaal 
to  drink  tea  and  eat  little  cakes  and  think  themselves 
very  grand  and  fashionable.  .  .  .  Now  we  are  by  our- 
selves, and  can  enjoy  ourselves,"  .  .  .  and  Potterat 
levelled  his  glass  as  he  spoke.  "  My  goodness,  what  a 
crowd  of  people  on  the  Dent  du  Midi !  .  .  .  There's 
one  lady  looking  at  herself  in  a  little  pocket-mirror  .  .  . 
and  a  man  is  eating  some  ham.  ..." 

Oh,    let   me   see.     Let    me   see,"  .  .  .  cried   Carlo. 
"  Oh,  father,  it's  not  true.     There's  nobody  there.  ..." 


POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR  49 

"  You  little  goose.  .  .  ." 

While  Regamey  and  Visinand  were  discussing  the 
heights  of  the  various  peaks,  Potterat  approached  some 
of  the  ladies,  and  began  explaining  to  them  how  the 
boat  engines  worked: 

"  It  looks  very  complicated,  all  these  wheels  and 
cranks  and  things,  turning,  and  jostling  each  other, 
going  backwards  and  forwards,  and  all  these  shafts  and 
turbines.  .  .  .  But  it's  really  very  simple  when  you 
understand  it  all.  .  .  .  They  boil  the  water  .  .  .  that 
produces  steam,  as  you  know.  This  steam  forces  itself 
through  the  pipes,  enters  the  machine  by  that  corner 
and  works  the  whole  thing.  .  .  .  Pushed  by  the  steam, 
it  has  to  turn.  If  it  didn't  it  would  be  much  more 
astonishing.  .  .  .  Steam  is  force,  force  is  movement, 
movement  is  .  .  .  you  understand.  .  .  .  All  this  power 
is  directed  on  the  wheels  which  simply  have  to  go.  And 
then  the  boat  goes  forward.  ..." 
One  lady  timidly  asked  a  question: 
"  But  why  do  these  pistons  work  contrary  to  one 
another  ?  .  .  ."    \-> 

"  Well,  you  see,  some  of  them  turn  one  way,  and  some 
of  them  the  other  way.  ...  In  order  to  work  properly, 
you  have  to  have  them  going  opposite  ways  .  .  .  opposi- 
tion makes  resistance,  and  resistance  is  the  secret  of 
power.  .  .  .  Not  to  mention  that  .  .  .  you  quite  under- 
stand. ..." 

At  the  Pension  Brochet,  the  terrace  overflowed  with 
diners.  But  the  landlord  had  reserved  for  the  Lausanne 
Choral  Society  a  table  on  the  grass  sumptuously 
spread.  The  surroundings  were  delightful;  a  green  lawn 
sloping  to  the  water's  edge,  where  the  waves  rippled 
and  broke  on  a  little  strand,  with  a  pleasant  murmur 
of  water  rippling  over  the  white  stones.  Some  trees 
threw  a  grateful  shade  over  them,  whilst  in  the  waving 
branches  a  thousand  flickering  shafts  of  sunlight  played. 

4 


50  POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR 

"  Ah,  this  is  something  like,"  said  Regamey,  as  he  sat 
down. 

"  Yes,  indeed  !"  .  .  .  replied  his  neighbour.  "  And 
we're  going  to  have  two  dinners.  First,  a  hot  dinner: 
soup,  fish,  vegetables  .  .  .  then,  when  we've  had  enough 
of  the  hot  things,  we'll  open  the  baskets  and  have  the 
rest;  then  the  cakes  .  .  .  and  on  the  top  of  it  all  a 
cigar,  and  a  bottle  in  front  of  every  man.  .  .  ." 

Gazing  at  the  exquisite  beauty  of  the  Lake,  everyone 
was  silent  for  a  moment  after  they  were  seated.  Drawing 
a  long  breath,  Potterat  broke  the  silence: 

"  Beautiful !  .  .  .  Glorious  !  .  .  .  And  in  addition, 
we're  all  hungry,  we're  all  thirsty,  and  we've  got  every- 
thing we  want.  ..." 

After  the  soup,  in  an  appreciative  silence,  the  golden 
fish,  fried  to  a  turn,  and  sprinkled  with  salt,  was  placed 
on  the  table.  The  moment  was  epic;  everyone,  though 
in  excellent  spirits,  was  too  occupied  to  talk.  A  few 
short  words,  between  two  mouthfuls. 

"  These  little  fishes  are  excellent  ...  so  nutty  in 
flavour." 

"  Nutty  !  .  .  .  Why  do  you  want  to  bring  in  nuts  ? 
.  .  .  Fish  is  good  enough  for  me.  ..." 

Presently  the  baskets  were  opened  simultaneously. 
From  hers  Madame  Potterat  brought  out  a  pie  with  a 
delicious  brown  crust. 

"  What  beautiful  pastry  you  make,  madame,"  said 
someone.  "  I  had  an  aunt  once  down  at  Forel  who 
used  to  make  pastry  like  that  for  weddings  and  such- 
like. ..." 

The  little  Bigarreaus  were  suddenly  slapped  by  their 
mother;  Madame  Potterat  discovered  that  Carlo  had 
crushed  a  strawberry  on  the  dress  of  his  next-door  neigh- 
bour .  .  .  but  the  glasses  went  round  again,  and  pardon 
was  general.  With  his  head  on  his  hand,  Vidoudez 
gazed  sentimentally  at  Mademoiselle  Logeon,  the  typist. 


POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR  51 

"  You're  very  quiet,  Potterat,"  said  one  of  his  friends. 

"  Oh,  presently,  I'll  talk.  When  I  have  to  speak  in 
public,  I  first  eat  a  good  deal,  I  drink  a  glass  or  two  to 
loosen  the  springs  as  it  were.  .  .  .  Then  comes  the 
moment  when  the  brain  begins  to  work,  shoot  out  sparks, 
light  up  the  ideas,  and  then  is  the  moment  to  plant 
one's  fists  on  the  table,  get  up  on  one's  feet,  look  round 
at  the  people,  and  talk.  .  .  .  That's  the  great  secret  of 
making  speeches." 

Presently  the  trumpet  sounded  a  fanfare.  A  group 
of  young  girls,  wearing  green  sashes  across  their  white 
frocks,  surrounded  the  new  flag,  and  unfurled  it  to  the 
breeze.  The  orator  emptied  his  glass  and  refilled  it. 
Then  he  rose. 

"  Ladies  and  Gentlemen,  Members  of  this  Society, 
dear  fellow-citizens.  I  have  been  asked  to  give  the  toast 
of  our  beloved  country,  and  to  ask  you  to  join  with  me 
in  drinking  to  those  clever  and  diligent  fingers  which 
have  embroidered  for  us  this  beautiful  banner,  the  un- 
rolling of  which  is  the  object  of  this  fete. 

"  Our  country,  Switzerland.  .  .  .  Only  the  voice  of  a 
poet  could  do  it  justice.  With  the  finger  of  its  mountains 
it  touches  the  clouds.  Alone  of  all  nations  it  possesses 
snows  which  one  may  really  describe  as  eternal.  Its 
spirit  is  heard  in  the  peaceful  tinklings  of  our  sheepbells 
in  the  mountains.  ...  In  its  national  institutions  it 
has  caught  the  essence  of  true  democracy,  as  can  easily 
be  shown.  In  Switzerland  three  languages  and  some 
patois  are  spoken.  Three  races  dwell  in  perfect  harmony 
within  her  borders,  bound  together  by  the  ties  of  mutual 
respect  and  mutual  rights.  Some  of  them  have  square 
heads,  and  others,  God  bless  them  !  have  round  heads. 
.  .  .  Little  quarrels  and  differences  we  have,  certainly, 
and  sometimes  feeling  runs  high,  but  the  moment  the 
red  flag  with  the  white  cross  is  hoisted,  the  ranks  close 
up,  and  the  Swiss  Confederation  is  the  cement  which 


52  POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR 

unites  all  hearts  in  one.  ...  How  beautiful  its  pastures, 
how  prosperous  and  happy  its  people.  .  .  .  And  how 
we  regret  having  to  die,  because  it  means  leaving  Switzer- 
land, and  we  don't  know  whether  they  have  anything  as 
good  up  there.  .  .  .  However,  '  There's  no  rose  without 
a  thorn,'  and  I  believe  it  to  be  my  duty  to  point  out  one 
of  these  at  any  rate.  We  who  have  been  set  apart  by 
Nature  herself  with  tremendous  mountain  barriers,  we 
are  invaded  by  the  world  of  luxury.  Our  edelweiss  is 
sold  at  the  corners  of  the  streets.  Our  streets  and  public 
places  reek  of  musk  and  patchouli,  and  other  artificial 
scents.  We  have  become  a  sort  of  turnstile,  where 
strangers  are  always  passing  through.  Only  this  morning 
on  the  boat  on  our  way  here  you  saw  our  little  Vaudoise 
girls  trying  to  ape  Parisiennes.  And  yet  where  could  you 
find  anything  better  than  our  Vaudoise  women, 
tall,  strong,  rosy-cheeked,  regular  double  dahlias  of 
women.  ..." 

Potterat  glanced  round  at  the  ladies  present  with  a 
complimentary  look,  emptied  his  glass,  which  Bigarreau 
filled  again  immediately,  and  went  on,  having  gained  the 
hearts  as  well  as  the  ears  of  the  women : 

"  Now  why  should  we  imitate  these  foreigners  ?  You 
ask  these  extraordinary  specimens  we  get  from  Val- 
paraiso and  other  countries  round  about  the  Mississippi 
what  they  think  of  us  ?  Nothing  !  They  don't  think  of 
us  at  all.  Then  since  they  are  absolutely  unconscious 
of  our  existence,  why  should  we  take  any  notice  of  them  ? 
.  .  .  Everyone  has  his  own  nationality,  his  own 
physiognomy,  his  own  way  of  talking,  his  own  ideas 
about  food.  The  man  or  woman  who  tries  to  break 
away  from  these  simply  makes  himself  ridiculous,  absurd, 
and  his  friends  think  him  a  fool.  .  .  .  That's  all.  .  .  . 
Now  what  are  we  going  to  do  about  it  ?  .  .  .  Well,  I 
say,  let  us  keep  our  own  ways,  wear  our  own  national 
dress,   preserve   our   own   accent,   our  national   dishes, 


POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR  53 

drink  our  own  wine,  grow  our  own  cabbages.  .  .  .  Let 
us  make  our  own  excursions,  climb  our  own  mountains, 
sing  our  own  beautiful  national  songs,  and  enjoy  our 
country  in  our  own  way.  We  belong  to  our  country; 
we  are  part  of  it.  Nature  puts  her  own  mark  on  us;  on 
our  lakes  and  our  mountains,  whether  they  be  called 
Fichtrehorn  or  Diablerets,  we  acquire  that  something 
which  marks  us  throughout  life  as  a  native  of  that  part. 
You  can  prove  it  for  yourselves.  The  Geneva  people 
are  thinner  than  we  are:  that's  their  mark.  The  Berne 
people  are  fairer  than  we  are:  that's  their  mark.  The 
people  of  Tessin  are  more  bronzed:  that's  their  mark. 
.  .  .  And  although  our  country  is  small  as  regards  size, 
it  is  great  in  the  friendship  which  binds  us  all  to  one 
another.  .  .  .  And  how  is  that  friendship  shown  better 
than  in  Societies  such  as  the  one  now  sitting  round  this 
table  in  the  warmest  good-fellowship  ?  When  we  are 
playing,  we  feel  the  bond  of  patriotism.  When  we  are 
performing  an  exquisite  cantata,  our  hearts  swell  with 
pride.  ...  I  lift  my  glass  then  in  honour  of  our  Choral 
Society,  the  Brise  du  Lac,  in  honour  of  the  Canton  de 
Vaud,  in  honour  of  our  old  Switzerland.  .  .  .  Long 
may  it  live,  and  we  with  it.  .  .  ." 

Here  they  gave  the  Cantonal  salute  three  times  over. 
Regamey  was  quite  overcome  with  emotion.  Then 
Potterat's  broad  face  lit  up  like  a  window  with  the  sun 
on  it,  as  the  young  girls  advanced  and  handed  the  new 
flag  to  Bigarreau.  Held  up  high  by  his  brawny  arms 
it  unfolded  itself  to  the  gentle  breeze,  displayed  all  its 
colours,  and  its  inscription  in  gold  letters.  It  seemed  to 
smile  at  the  Lake.  .  .  .  Carried  away  in  the  excitement 
of  the  moment,  Potterat  took  up  his  speech  again: 

"It  is  to  the  ladies  that  I  have  now  the  pleasure  of 
addressing  myself.  In  the  name  of  the  members  of  this 
Society  I  thank  them  again  and  again  for  this  magnificant 
gift  which  their  kind  hearts  have  prompted  them  to  make 


54  POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR 

for  us.  It  will  be  an  encouragement  to  us  in  the  strenuous 
task  we  have  set  ourselves.  .  .  .  Think  of  the  long 
evenings,  through  which,  in  secrecy  and  mystery,  diligent 
and  clever  fingers  have  plied  the  needle,  with  the  result 
which  you  all  now  see  before  you.  .  .  .  Henceforth  we 
shall  march  behind  this  banner,  ready  to  defend  it  to  the 
last  drop  of  our  blood.  It  will  rejoice  our  eyes.  It  will 
uphold  our  spirits.  It  will  inspire  us  with  energy  and 
enthusiasm.  And  whenever  we  play,  whenever  we  sing, 
this  dear  symbol  will  float  before  our  memories.  To  the 
fair  sex  which  is  the  ornament  of  all  our  fetes,  and  the 
hope  of  all  our  dreams,  I  drain  this  glass  to  the  last  drop 
of  its  nectar  of  our  countryside.  ...  To  the  charming 
sex,  Long  life  and  happiness." 

At  the  noise  of  the  cheers  that  followed,  the  seagulls 
hovering  over  the  Lake  flew  away.  Potterat  wiped  his 
forehead,  modestly  disclaiming  the  compliments  which 
were  showered  on  him. 

"  Oh,  it's  nothing,"  he  said  to  Logeon.  "  I've  always 
been  told  that  I  had  a  turn  for  making  speeches.  ..." 

"  Bravo,  David  !"  said  Madame  Potterat. 

After  dinner,  everyone  agreed  that  a  little  rest  would 
not  be  a  bad  idea.  So  they  settled  themselves  in  friendly 
groups,  on  the  slopes  here, and  there,  with  tree  stumps, 
or  mossy  stones,  by  way  of  a  cushion,  the  whole  scene 
radiating  that  simple  happiness  with  which  woods  and 
fields  and  summer  sunshine  envelope  us,  but  which  is 
never  found  in  streets;  the  happy  comradeship  of  neigh- 
bours, a  little  jealous  of  one  another  at  times,  perhaps, 
but  always  kindly;  a  good  fellowship,  warm-hearted, 
tender,  almost  romantic,  on  the  part  of  Potterat,  whose 
earnest  sincerity  made  the  feeling  stronger  in  all  of  them. 
They  gazed  dreamily  on  the  magic  beauty  of  the  scene 
before  them:  the  imperceptible  gliding  of  the  swans  on 
the  bosom  of  the  Lake,  the  blue  of  the  water,  the 
picturesque  little  bays  along  purple  shores,  the  indefinable 


POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR  55 

graciousness  and  love  that  seemed  to  descend  from 
Heaven  upon  this  happy  land,  cradled  their  hearts  and 
minds. 

"  On  the  day  of  creation,"  said  Potterat,  "  we  drew  the 
first  prize.  .  .  .     And  we  know  how  to  appreciate  it.  .  .  ." 

Presently  some  of  the  younger  members  of  the  party 
began  dancing  on  the  terrace  of  the  inn,  to  the  -music 
of  Visinand's  clarionet.  He  sat  under  the  shade  of  a 
big  chestnut -tree  And  soon,  all  up  and  down  the  little 
valley,  in  the  sh  ade  of  the  trees,  couples  were  whirling 
to  the  music.  Young  men  and  girls  smiled  into  each 
other's  eyes.  Madame  Bigarreau,  clinging  to  her  hus- 
band's arm,  gazed  steadily  at  the  sky;  some  of  the  older 
people,  even,  trod  a  dignified  measure;  while  Potterat, 
his  face  shining,  bubbling  over  with  happiness,  dragged 
his  wife  through  a  series  of  complicated  movements. 
He  said  gaily: 

"  Come  along.  .  .  .  That's  all  right.  .  .  .  Fat  people 
can  always  waltz  better  than  thin  ones.  ..." 

Suddenly,  a  long  peal  of  thunder,  like  the  tearing  of 
calico,  followed  by  a  loud  clap,  fell  through  the  hot 
air.  Visinand  put  up  his  clarionet,  and  the  arms  of  the 
dancers  fell.  The  sky  was  suddenly  overcast,  and  a 
chilly  wind  sprang  up  from  behind  the  forest.  Hats  dis- 
appeared under  the  skirts  which  were  kilted  up  high  over 
the  petticoats.    They  gathered  up  the  baskets  and  fled.  .  .  . 

The  boat  hurried  over  the  oily  waters.  At  Montreux, 
the  returning  crowd  swarmed  over  the  gangway;  the 
Italians,  the  clerks,  the  shopgirls,  the  green  -  hatted 
fraternity,  the  Englishmen  .  .  ,  but  how  different  from 
the  gay  crowd  of  the  morning !  Dresses  limp  and 
clinging  close  to  the  hips,  trousers  sticking  to  the 
shins.  .  .  .  The  very  golden-haired  young  lady's  paint 
was  washed  off,  her  hair  was  dishevelled  by  the  wind, 
her  hat  was  crooked,  and  its  aigrette  stuck  out  over  one 
cye  in  a  bedraggled  point. 


56  POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR 

"  Never  mind  !  .  .  ."  said  Potterat  cheerfully  to  her. 
"  Better  luck  next  time.  ..." 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders  contemptuously.  And  as 
her  cavalier  giggled,  Potterat  added: 

"  Bravo  !  .  .  .  It's  something,  anyhow,  to  be  able 
to  amuse  fools." 

The  storm  still  growled  over  the  Lake.  Sulphur- 
coloured  lightnings  fell  from  a  livid  sky  over  the  black 
water. 

"  This  is  all  right,"  asserted  Regamey.  "  The  best 
excursions  always  finish  up  with  a  thunderstorm.  ..." 

"  That's  true  !  .  .  ."  replied  Potterat,  "  especially  for 
lovers.  A  declaration  of  love  is  always  more  fervent  if 
it  is  made  between  the  peals  of  thunder.  .  .  .  R-r-r-an  ! 
'  I  adore  you  !  .  .  .'  R-r-r-an  !  .  .  .  '  Good  Heavens, 
how  dreadful !  And  I  love  you  too  !  .  .  .'  R-r-r-r-an  ! 
.  .  .  But  I  believe  it  will  be  fine  after  all  by  the  time  we 
get  to  Ouchy  .  .  .  there  are  the  stars  coming  out  over 
there.  We'll  go  off  in  procession,  with  the  band  playing 
.  .  .  that  will  make  a  nice  wind-up  to  the  day." 

But  alas,  they  were  doomed  to  disappointment.  The 
clouds  closed  in  again  thickly,  hiding  the  stars  from  sight, 
and  the  rain  came  down  in  long,  silver  threads.  On  the 
landing  stage  the  people  fled  like  dead  leaves  before  the 
wind,  the  lightning  flashed  on  the  bright  instruments,  the 
flag  was  rolled  up,  and  the  crowd  streamed  off  the  boat 
in  silence.  Taken  by  assault,  the  trams  rung  their  bells 
frantically;  the  confectioner  at  the  corner  hastily  closed 
his  inundated  shop,  shutters  banged,  cats  flew  with 
lowered  tails  across  the  street,  like  stones  from  a  catapult. 
A  cornet  brayed  out  some  hoarse  notes  defiantly,  and  a 
voice  was  heard  to  say  beseechingly: 

"  Do  be  quiet,  David,  you'll  attract  the  lightning." 
And  David  replied : 

"  I'm   only   playing   the   '  Cantique   Suisse.'     There's 
nothing  like  it  for  frightening  away  evil  spirits." 


CHAPTER  III 

To  gardeners  who  love  their  work,  and  care  for  their 
plants  with  sympathy,  the  gratified  earth  responds 
marvellously.  At  Eglantine  Cottage,  one  had  only  to 
stretch  one's  hands  out  and  pick  quinces,  apples,  peaches, 
pears,  tomatoes,  .  .  .  and  the  trellis  bent  under  the 
weight  of  its  grapes.  They  moved  the  ladder  from  tree 
to  tree,  spreading  a  sheet  underneath,  which  was  hol- 
lowed into  a  tunnel  under  the  weight  of  ripe  fruit. 

"  Gently.  .  .  .  Gently  ..-.'-'  the  master  of  the  house 
would  call  out.  "  You  must  treat  fruit  decently.  .  .  . 
To  be  worth  eating,  peaches  should  have  their  down  on, 
and  plums  their  bloom.  .  .  ." 

In  spite  of  his  wife's  entreaties,  Potterat,  perspiring 
and  grunting,  climbed  into  the  trees.  He  fought  with 
the  wasps,  cautiously,  for  fear  of  reprisals,  for  his  ripe 
pears,  which  filled  the  air  with  their  sweetness.  He 
sat  prudently  in  the  fork  of  a  tree,  and  from  thence 
he  issued  a  flood  of  instructions  and  commands  to  Carlo, 
seated  astride  one  of  the  highest  branches.  He  made 
remarks  too: 

"  Just  listen  to  Schmid's  apples  falling  slap  on  to 
the  ground.  He's  spoiling  them.  .  .  .  And  for  a  man 
as  eager  to  make  money  as  he  is  it's  rather  astonish- 
ing. .  .  ." 

"  Oh,  do  be  quiet  ..."  said  Madame  Potterat,  stand- 
ing beside  the  baskets,  in  which  she  was  laying  the 
beautiful  fruit  on  layers  of  fresh  leaves. 

"  Why  ?  .  .  .     I'm  in  my  own  garden.     .  ."  said  Pot- 

57 


58  POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR 

terat  indignantly.  "  Glorious  view  one  gets  from  up 
here,"  he  went  on,  "I  can  see  seven  bays  and  two  pro- 
montories. ..." 

The  warm  air  was  sweet;  the  fountain  played  in  the 
afternoon  silence.  When  the  fruit  was  all  gathered,  they 
brought  in  the  baskets  and  ranged  the  fruit  on  straw  in 
the  cellar.  The  boy  who  delivered  the  evening  papers 
ran  past,  depositing  the  Feuille  d'Avis,  as  he  did  so, 
on  the  window-sill. 

"  Let's  see  what  news  there  is  .  .  ."  said  Potterat. 
..."  Accidents.  .  .  .  Fires.  .  .  .  H'm,  nothing  more 
than  usual.  And  offers  of  marriage  ...  as  many  as 
you  like.  ...  'A  middle-aged  lady/  ...  'A  widow 
with  some  savings.'  ...  '  A  serious  person,  yearning  for 
true  affection.'  ...  Ha  !  that  would  suit  you,  Belisaire  ! 
Send  along  your  photograph  and  a  nice  letter;  that  would 
be  sure  to  do  the  trick.  .  .  .  You  yearn  for  true  affec- 
tion, don't  you  ?  .  .  ." 

Belisaire  sniggered.  "  Oh,  they  made  eyes  at  me  as 
long  as  my  hair  was  black.  Now  it's  white,  they  don't 
notice  me  any  longer.  ..." 

"Come  now  .  .  .  you  could  play  them  some  barcarolles 
on  your  ocarina.  .  .  .  And  you're  no  chicken,  you 
know.  .  .  .     You're  getting  on.  .  .  ." 

"  No  doubt.  ...  Oh,  well,  I'll  think  about  it  when  I 
get  to  the  next  world.  ..." 

Meantime,  Madame  Potterat  was  walking  as  far  as  the 
gate  with  Mademoiselle  Eva,  a  bonne  who  had  come  to 
buy  vegetables. 

"  I  hear  that  you  are  engaged  to  young  Burnand. 
He's  in  a  solicitor's  office,  isn't  he  ?  .  .  ." 

"  Oh,  he's  much  better  than  that.  .  .  .  He's  employed 
in  a  bank.  We're  going  to  take  a  nice  little  flat  in  town 
.  .  .  one  of  those  new  ones.  ...  ■  Modern  comfort, 
fitted  bathroom,  drawing-room/  and  all  that.  .  .  .  And 
just  think,  he's  dead  set  on  my  learning  the  piano.  .  .  ." 


POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR  59 

"  Well,  why  not !  Your  fingers  are  supple  enough. 
.  .  .  And  it's  always  nice  to  be  able  to  have  a  little 
music.  .  .  ." 

"  Oh,  certainly  it  passes  the  time.  ...  I  should  play 
waltzes.  .  .  ." 

Potterat  came  up  to  the  table  where  Carlo  was  labori- 
ously writing  a  composition  for  school,  his  tongue  working 
with  his  hand. 

"  Show  me  what  you're  doing.  .  .  .  There's  a  good 
boy.  Look  how  well  he  writes  already.  ...  Ha  !  I 
shouldn't  wonder  if  you  got  a  commission  when  you  go 
up  for  your  military  training.  .  .  .  It's  in  the  blood. 
.  .  .  My  father's  uncle  once  spoke  to  Napoleon.  ..." 

"  In  the  army  ..."  interrupted  Madame  Potterat, 
while  she  waved  a  last  good-bye  to  Eva.  "  Ah  well, 
there  would  never  be  any  real  fighting  anyhow.  People 
are  too  civilized  now.  ..." 

"  Oh,  that's  only  outside  varnish,"  said  her  husband. 
"  I  know  the  human  heart.  Pride  and  jealousy  are 
getting  up  steam  inside.  .  .  .  One  day  or  another  the 
varnish  will  crack,  and  then  you'll  see  of  what  wicked- 
ness the  world  is  capable  still.  ..." 

Madame  Potterat  put  her  arm  instinctively  round  her 
boy. 

"  Wouldn't  you  like  better  to  be  an  engineer  ?  ...  or 
perhaps  a  merchant,  a  wholesale  merchant  ?  .  .  ." 

But  this  Potterat  vetoed  at  once. 

"  No,  no.  .  .  .  There  has  never  yet  been  a  Potterat 
in  trade.  To  be  a  grocer  wouldn't  appeal  to  us  at  all, 
would  it  ?  .  .  .  As  for  being  a  clergyman  !  .  .  .  It's  a 
splendid  profession  if  one  wants  to  be  poor.  ...  A 
lawyer  ?  .  .  .  A  tap  for  turning  on  a  stream  of  false- 
hood. ...  An  engineer  ?  .  .  .  To  make  bridges  and 
tunnels  in  order  that  we  may  be  overrun  by  all  the 
foreigners  and  half-breeds  in  the  world.  .  .  .  No,  thanks. 
.  .  .  Professor  ?  .  .  .    Twenty   years   hence,   boys   will 


60  POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR 

be  impossible  to  manage.  .  .  .  No,  the  best  thing  is  to 
have  a  position  of  organized  and  established  authority. 
Where  one  has  only  to  say  to  people  '  Go  !'  and  they  go, 
or  suffer  the  consequences.  .  .  .  That's  the  right  sort 
of  profession.'' 

Carlo  took  up  a  position  in  front  of  his  father. 

"  You  know  very  well  that  I'm  going  to  be  an 
aviator.  ..." 

"  Just  listen  to  that  young  imp  !"  exclaimed  Potterat, 
though  he  was  secretly  delighted  with  the  boy's  spirit. 
***** 

For  some  time  past  a  sly-looking  man  might  have  been 
seen  to  stop  on  the  road  opposite  Eglantine  Cottage, 
and  take  notes  in  a  pocket-book.  Also  he  appeared  to 
be  measuring  distances  with  long  strides.  Potterat 
frowned  as  he  watched  him. 

"  There's  Mauser  !  .  .  .  What  is  he  up  to  now,  poking 
about  like  that  ?  .  .  ." 

This  man  Mauser,  without  having  any  very  clearly 
defined  occupation,  was  undoubtedly  a  clever  man  of 
business.  He  knew  just  when  to  buy  a  piece  of  ground 
cheaply,  to  group  his  purchases  together,  one  bit  round- 
ing off  another,  then  to  sell  the  whole  to  some  rich 
tradesman  longing  for  a  villa,  or  to  build  thereon  one 
of  those  barracks  of  flats  where  the  poor  crowd  and 
swarm  together.  He  had  a  certain  smart  knack  of 
catching  the  popular  taste  with  novel  ideas.  Venice 
and  its  palaces,  for  instance,  furnished  him  with  some. 
The  words  '  loggia,'  '  campanile,'  '  pergola,'  etc.,  fell 
frequently  from  his  thick  lips.  As  he  became  more 
prosperous,  he  let  his  whiskers  grow,  from  the  tips  of  his 
ears  over  his  fat  red  cheeks ;  he  began  to  wear  light  grey 
frock  coats,  fancy  waistcoats,  etc.,  and,  with  the  air  of 
a  well-preserved  man  of  the  world,  to  frequent  places 
where  he  could  rub  up  against  people  richer  and  still 
more  successful,  even,  than  himself.    He  had  an  oily, 


POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR  61 

insinuating  way  of  talking  to  possible  victims,  of  adapting 
his  conversations  and  opinions  to  those  of  his  hearer, 
knowing  well  that  often  the  zigzag  path  gets  to  the 
desired  place  sooner  than  the  straight  road.  So,  with 
his  hands  always  in  his  pockets,  a  big  gold  chain  lying 
across  his  paunch,  his  chin  glistening,  a  good-humoured 
twinkle  lurking  in  his  eyes,  and  a  big  cigar  in  his  mouth, 
which,  by  the  way,  made  him  speak  somewhat  indis- 
tinctly— it  is  not  always  desirable  to  speak  too  distinctly 
— he  hovered  round  about  various  small  proprietors, 
narrowing  his  circle  and  striking  his  claws  into  their 
property  at  the  opportune  moment.  .  .  .  Bigarreau, 
Burnand,  Potterat,  Schmid,  all  knew  him  well  by  sight, 
from  having  seen  him  a  hundred  times  gazing  at  some 
poster  plan  of  a  block  of  flats,  or  standing  under  a  tree, 
apparently  admiring  the  scenery. 

On  Saturday  evenings,  too,  he  might  often  be  met 
with  at  the  barber's  in  the  Square,  buried  in  an  evening 
paper,  and  apparently  in  no  hurry,  judging  by  his  readi- 
ness to  give  up  his  turn,  and  to  engage  in  chance  con- 
versations. In  reality,  he  had  noted  Bigarreau' s  oaths, 
Burnand's  reticence,  Schmid's  grumpiness,  Potterat's 
romantic  idealism.  He  knew  all  their  characteristics. 
And  on  the  slightest  provocation,  he  would  invite  people 
to  have  a  drink.     And  they  would  accept. 

Now  he  had  set  his  heart  on  getting  this  garden  of 
Eglantine  Cottage,  sloping  gently  down  to  the  orchards 
bordering  on  the  Lake.  An  ideal  position  !  He  had 
great  plans  (he  pronounced  it  '  blans  ') ;  Mottaz  had  sold 
him  his  ground;  he  had  an  option  on  that  of  Perret. 
But  these  would  be  of  little  use  to  him  if  he  could  not 
secure  Potterat's  land,  "  to  round  off  the  view,"  as  he 
expressed  it. 

Leaning  against  a  tree,  to  all  appearance  lost  in  reverie, 
Mauser  was  studying  Potterat,  as  the  latter  went  about 
his  garden,  talking  to  his  cat,  the  fowls,  or  Belisaire. 


62  POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR 

By  the  very  way  the  big  man  walked  about,  planting 
his  heels  firmly  on  the  ground,  Mauser  knew  that  he 
loved  his  land,  and  would  not  easily  part  with  it.  Cer- 
tainly there  was  Carlo,  at  present  a  schoolboy  in  a  sailor 
suit,  but  what  about  the  future  ? 

This  vegetable  patch,  as  it  was,  would  not  be  much 
of  a  provision  for  this  cherished  son  of  theirs,  ...  it 
would  not  go  far  in  establishing  him  in  life.  And  then 
there  was  Madame  Potterat.  ...  "  She'd  be  all  right !" 
thought  Mauser.  "  One  has  only  to  notice  her  Sunday 
hats,  and  the  way  she  cranes  her  neck  to  watch  a  fashion- 
ably dressed  woman  pass,  to  be  pretty  sure  that  she 
wouldn't  be  likely  to  refuse  a  reasonably  good  offer.  ..." 
There  was  only  Schmid  and  his  ground.  And  there 
wasn't  much  doubt  but  that  he,  with  his  narrow  face, 
and  close-lipped  mouth,  always  bowed  over  his  work, 
rising  early,  going  to  bed  late,  a  sworn  enemy  to  tobacco, 
and  cautious  before  a  bottle,  even  when  the  drinks  were 
free,  ...  he  would  close  with  an  offer  like  a  shot,  and 
his  wife  would  follow  him  meekly.  The  hardest  people 
to  dislodge  are  those  sentimental  fools  who  are  bound  to 
a  place  by  ties  of  remembrance  and  affection.  Pshah  ! 
silly  dreamers  !  .  .  .  But  you  can't  make  that  sort 
listen  to  reason. 

"  He's  up  to  no  good,  that  Mauser !"  Belisaire  would 
often  mutter.  "  People  who  laugh  with  their  eyes  only 
aire  never  to  be  trusted.  ..." 

One  night,  towards  ten  o'clock,  Eglantine  Cottage,  as 
usual  at  that  hour,  was  wrapped  in  slumber.  Peace  lay 
over  the  garden,  over  the  wide-winged  roof.  .  .  . 
Potterat  was  snoring  loudly,  lying  on  his  back;  in  the 
stable  loft,  Belisaire  reposed  with  great  dignity,  his  beard 
flowing  over  the  coverlet ;  creeping  with  velvet  feet  along 
the  gutter,  Mi-Fou's  thin  back  filled  for  a  moment  the 
round  window,  hiding  the  stars.  ...  No  one  heard  the 
stifled  cries,  the  expiring  groans  which  suddenly  broke 


POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR  63 

the  soft  stijlness  of  the  night.  But  in  the  morning  the 
bloody  feathers  which  were  found  in  the  fowl-run,  the 
frightened  survivors  perched  on  the  topmost  branches 
of  a  pear-tree,  the  ruffled  feathers  of  the  cock,  all  told 
their  own  tale. 

"  It's  some  brute  of  a  weasel !  .  .  ."  lamented  Potterat. 
■■'  It  has  killed  the  big  yellow  one — the  best  layer !  .  .  . 
If  I  catch  the  beast  I'll  drown  it  in  boiling  water  !  .  .  . 
Why  the  devil  couldn't  it  have  gone  after  Schmid's 
fowls,  instead  of  stealing  decent  people's  ?  .  .  . 
Brute!  .  .  ." 

After  this,  Potterat  put  his  Brahma  cock,  and  his 
best  hens,  into  the  cellar  every  evening,  after  a  wild  chase. 
And  then  he  went  back  to  the  run,  and  armed  with  an 
old  pistol,  lay  in  wait,  crouching  in  the  shadow,  for  the 
marauder.  Twice  he  let  fly  at  the  moving  shadow  of  a 
branch,  after  which  he  swore  largely  for  some  minutes. 

Belisaire,  on  the  other  hand,  borrowed  Bigarreau's 
shot-gun,  and  betook  himself  to  the  fields.  There  he 
poked  about  in  the  undergrowth,  guided  by  his  poacher's 
instincts. 

"  You  must  watch  near  the  place  of  the  last  attempt," 
said  Potterat. 

"  You  must  attack  them  in  their  holes,"  asserted 
Belisaire. 

One  evening  a  shot  was  heard,  and  soon  after,  Belisaire 
appeared  in  the  moonlight,  carrying  the  victim  over  his 
shoulder.  It  was  a  fat  young  fox.  Potterat  hurled 
imprecations  at  the  body  of  the  thief. 

"  Brute  !  .  .  .  Thief !  .  .  .  Highway  robber  !  .  .  . 
Curst  for  all  eternity  !  .  .  .  Weasels  or  foxes,  devil  take 
them  all !" 

For  three  days  after  that,  the  animal  marinaded  in  a 
bath  of  red  wine  in  which  floated  some  onions  and  cloves. 
With  silent  satisfaction,  Belisaire,  the  old  gourmand, 
presided  over  the  cooking  of  his  game,  and  made  for  it 


64  POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR 

a  savoury  sauce  flavoured  with  marjoram  and  bay 
leaves  .  .  .  then  in  the  evening,  a  few  men  appeared 
and  were  welcomed  by  Madame  Potterat.  Sniffing  the 
savoury  fragrance,  they  sat  down  to  the  table,  just  as 
Potterat  appeared  with  his  arms  full  of  bottles.  Putting 
them  on  the  table  he  shook  hands  all  round.  Then 
silence  reigned.  .  .  .  When  Belisaire  came  in,  bearing 
a  huge  dish  on  which  reposed  the  fox,  lying  on  a  bed  of 
fried  onions,  carrots,  turnips,  and  potatoes,  and  holding 
in  its  mouth  a  roast  fowl,  there  were  exclamations  of 
delight.  Amidst  talk  and  laughter  the  meal  went  on. 
They  drank  Belisaire's  health,  as  he  had  been  the  provider 
of  the  feast. 

"Now  you  are  the  hero  of  the  feast,"  said  Potterat, 
"  you  must  give  us  a  toast." 

"  Oh,  I'll  give  you  a  toast,  and  a  fine  one  too.  ..." 
Then  stroking  his  beard  meditatively,  and  with  a  far-off 
gaze,  the  gipsy  love  of  wandering  in  the  old  man  asserted 
itself. 

"  Here's  to  the  life  of  the  fox  !  .  .  .  There's  nothing 
finer  in  the  whole  of  nature.  .  .  .  The  fox  lives  well; 
he  has  his  fill  of  fresh  air  and  of  lif e ;  he  lives  in  the  ground, 
close  to  the  roots  of  things;  at  night  he  roams  far  and 
wide  in  search  of  his  prey ;  he  never  grows  old  and  white- 
haired;  he  dies  while  he  is  still  full  of  life  and  vigour, 
without  being  ill.  .  .  .  But  there  are  not  only  foxes 
with  fur,"  Belisaire  went  on,  lowering  his  voice,  "  there 
are  foxes  in  frock  coats  and  top  hats;  .  .  .  and  these 
are  the  most  to  be  feared.  There  are  not  only  geese 
with  feathers  .  .  .  there  are  geese,  silly  geese,  with 
beards  and  moustaches.  ...  I  could  mention  some  of 
both  kinds.  That  Mauser,  for  instance,  who  prowls 
about  on  the  quiet,  poking  his  nose  into  other  people's 
affairs;  who  buys  up  old  gardens  and  sells  them  again 
at  a  big  profit;  who  builds  these  high  cages.  .  .  .  What 
is  he  but  a  fox  of  the  worst  kind  ?     As  for  the  geese  .  .  . 


POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR  65 

well,  there  are  some  people  sitting  at  this  table  who  are 
thinking,  perhaps,  that  they  are  exchanging  their  poor 
little  places  for  a  much  better  and  grander  run.  *  .  . 
Well,  let  them  beware,  I  say  !  For  money  people  will 
often  do  very  foolish  things.  .  .  .  Money  kills  all  simple 
things,  memories  of  the  past,  love  of  one's  old  home, 
happiness,  and  good  humour.  ...  I  would  warn  the 
geese  just  to  look  out !  ..." 

There  was  a  silence,  then,  with  a  mighty  thump  of  his 
fist  on  the  table,  Potterat  said: 

"  Bravo,  Belisaire  !  Hear,  hear  !  You've  hit  the  nail 
on  the  head  !  .  .  .  Yes,  that  fox  is  prowling  round  our 
chicken  runs.  .  .  .  This  house  now,  I  have  lived  here 
for  nine  years,  and  I  am  as  fond  of  it  as  if  I  had  been 
born  here  ten  times  over.  .  .  .  And  my  garden,  my 
vegetables,  my  fruit  trees,  the  fountain,  well,  I  am  very 
happy  here,  I  don't  want  to  change.  ...  I  tell  you 
what,  let  us  all  agree — all  of  us  who  have  ground  about 
here,  myself,  Burnand,  Blanc,  Menetrey,  Giron,  Bigarreau 
— let  us  all  agree  to  hold  our  land  tight.  .  .  .  The  first 
who  sells  is  a  coward  and  traitor  to  the  rest.  .  .  .  The 
first  one  who  betrays  the  cause  of  the  country  will  be 
put  in  the  pillory  of  public  contempt  by  common  consent. 
...  Is  it  agreed  ?  .  .  .  Well,  let's  make  a  solemn 
promise  here  and  now,  in  front  of  these  bottles  .  .  .  under 
the  eyes  of  our  forefathers.  ..." 

They  all  agreed  enthusiastically.  With  tears  in  their 
eyes,  the  older  men  of  the  neighbourhood  swore  to  stand 
by  their  property.  They  compared  notes  as  to  the  date 
of  the  building  of  each  house;  they  recalled  those  who 
had  lived  in  them,  and  one  man  quoted  feelingly: 

"  There  by  the  spire  of  the  village  we  love, 
There  where  our  fathers  are  sleeping." 

As  they  were  leaving,  the  lamp  that  Madame  Potterat 
held  above  her  head  illuminating  the  garden  path, 
Bigarreau  said  to  Potterat : 

5 


66  POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR 

"  Watch  that  son-in-law  of  yours  that  he  doesn't  begin 
to  drive  a  bargain.  .  .  .  Are  you  and  he  on  good 
terms  ?  .  .  ." 

"  Oh,  we  are  on  as  good  terms  as  one  can  be  with  such 
a  curmudgeon.  He  would  sell  his  soul  for  money,  I 
believe.  ...  '  Apart  from  that/  as  the  man  who  had 
fallen  from  the  top  of  a  ladder  on  to  a  stone  said — apart 
from  that,  he  is  all  right." 

As  usual,  Madame  Potterat  interrupted: 

"  David  !  .  .  .     Do  be  quiet !  .  .  ." 

"  No,  I  won't.  .  .  .  Why  shouldn't  I  say  what  I 
like  ?     I'm  a  free  and  independent  citizen.  ..." 

There  are  some  days  when  everything  seems  to  go  badly. 
The  soup  is  burnt,  glass  gets  broken,  bad  temper  prevails, 
the  grey  sky  and  general  dinginess  of  everything  depress 
one's  spirits,  and  the  waves  lashing  on  the  beach  foretell 
rain.  On  one  of  these  days  Potterat,  looking  up  from 
where  he  was  working  in  a  corner  of  the  garden,  saw  his 
little  son  running  towards  him,  his  face  streaming  with 
blood.  For  a  moment  he  was  transfixed  with  horror, 
but  Carlo  began: 

"  Just  look  what  Louis  has  done !  .  .  .  We  were 
playing  marbles,  and  he  lost  .  .  .  and  then  he  hit  me 
in  the  face  with  a  stick.  ..." 

At  this  moment,  from  behind  the  hedge  was  heard  the 
irritated  voice  of  Louise : 

"  Carlo  stole  your  marbles,  did  he  ?  .  .  .  And  then 
kicked  you  twice  ?  .  .  .     What  a  wicked  boy  !  .  :  ." 

To  crown  all,  Schmid's  chickens  and  his  rabbit,  having 
managed  to  get  through  the  hedge,  were  gaily  disporting 
themselves  in  a  bed  of  lettuces  planted  out  that  morning. 
Exasperated  to  fury,  Potterat  charged  down  upon  the  foe. 
The  fowls  fled  madly  with  outstretched  wings  and  hoarse 
squawks  of  terror,  but  the  rabbit,  cornered  at  the  foot 
of  a  tree,  was  seized  by  the  two  ears,  killed  by  one  blow 


POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR  67 

on  the  back  of  its  head,  and  flung  on  to  a  manure-heap, 
where  it  lay  with  its  paws  in  the  air,  a  poor  dead  heap  of 
brown  fur. 

"  Trying  to  murder  my  son,  and  destroying  my  vege- 
tables !  .  .  .  There's  your  rabbit,  you  old  fox,"  shouted 
Potterat  furiously.  "It  won't  have  any  more  tooth- 
ache. .  .  ." 

Schmid,  in  a  towering  rage,  thrust  his  head  over  the 
hedge,  and  with  his  arms  raised  towards  heaven,  his 
eyes  glaring,  his  face  crimson,  his  mouth  convulsed  with 
rage,  he  spat  out  an  insulting  name  at  Potterat,  and  kept 
on  repeating  it  at  intervals  with  the  regularity  of  a 
machine. 

"  It's  yourself  you're  talking  about  ..."  chaffed 
Potterat.  M  Oh,  you  want  to  have  it  out,  do  you  ?  .  .  . 
All  right,  then,  let's  have  it  out  once  for  all.  .  .  .  What 
sort  of  a  neighbour  do  you  think  you  are  ?  .  .  .  Hey  ? 
...  A  wooden  face  !  .  .  .  a  block  of  ice  !  .  .  .  the 
sulkiness  of  a  mule  !  .  .  .  And  nasty  tricks  about  every- 
thing. .  .  .  Indeed !  You  want  an  explanation,  do 
you  ?  .  .  .  Who  played  the  fool  about  the  fountain  ? 
Who  shirked  his  share  of  keeping  the  fence  in  repair  ? 
.  .  .  I've  put  up  with  a  good  deal  from  you,  but  I'm 
just  about  fed  up  with  you  and  your  ways.  ...  Go  to 
the  devil,  you  and  your  fowls  and  your  dead  rabbit !  .  .  . 
It's  where  you  belong.  ..." 

Potterat's  wife  held  on  to  her  husband  from  behind; 
Schmid's  wife  held  on  to  him.  Between  them  all  lay  the 
dead  rabbit. 

"...  Tell  me  to  be  quiet !  .  .  ."  shouted  Potterat. 
r<  When  gutters  are  full  they  run  over.  ...  I  have  held 
my  tongue  long  enough  !  .  .  .  For  years  I've  been 
holding  myself  in.  .  .  ." 

Then,  quite  suddenly,  the  storm  was  over.  Exhausted 
by  its  own  violence,  the  rage  of  each  man  came  to  an  end. 
Potterat  still  talked  vaguely  and  loudly  of  putting  the 


68  POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR 

matter  in  the  hands  of  a  lawyer,  of  the  interest  he  could 
bring  to  bear  in  high  quarters,  and  he  threatened  Schmid 
with  fines  and  disgrace.  .  .  .  The  other,  though  cowed, 
still  spat  out  his  insults,  but  at  longer  intervals.  ...  At 
last  both  men  were  silent,  and  the  wailing  of  the  rising 
wind,  the  moaning  of  the  Lake,  resumed  their  sway. 
Rain  began  to  fall.    Both  families  retired  indoors. 

"If  he  had  spoken  another  word  I  should  have  gone 
for  him  ..."  said  Potterat  to  his  wife.  "  He  shut  up 
just  in  time." 

Sitting  on  the  sofa,  in  the  gloomy  room,  Potterat 
endured  for  a  time  his  wife's  reproaches,  and  the  portraits 
seemed  to  gaze  regretfully  at  him  from  the  wall.  At 
last  he  could  stand  their  combined  blame  no  longer,  so 
he  betook  himself  to  the  shed  where  Belisaire  was  mending 
the  handle  of  a  tool. 

"  Did  you  hear  the  row  ?" 

"  Rather  !  .  .  .  You  could  have  been  heard  across 
the  Lake." 

"  And  which  do  you  think  is  in  the  right  of  it  ?  .  .  . 
The  son-in-law  or  the  father-in-law  ?  .  .  .  My  son  half- 
murdered;  insults  repeated  again  and  again;  not  to  men- 
tion his  thieving  fowls  and  rabbits.  ...  I  tell  you  he's 
just  about  reached  the  limit.  .  .  .  And  now  he's  going 
to  bring  an  action  against  me.  ..." 

Belisaire  shook  his  head. 

"  No,  no,  he  won't  go  to  law.  .  .  .  Besides,  if  he  did, 
when  one  has  been  treated  so  abominably  as  you  have, 
and  has  passed  it  over  so  many  times,  you  could  hold 
your  head  up  before  the  magistrates.  .  .  .  There  are 
plenty  of  witnesses.  ..." 

Potterat  held  out  his  big  hand. 

u  Belisaire,  you  may  not  have  a  penny  to  bless  your- 
self with,  but  your  heart's  in  the  right  place.  .  .  .  Ah, 
this  is  what  happens  when  one's  daughter  marries  beneath 
herself  !  .  .  .   I  ought  to  have  made  her  marry  a  policeman, 


POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR    .  69 

one  of  ourselves.  .  .  .  It's  the  first  language  you  learn 
that  stamps  you  for  life.  You  hear  a  child  say  ■  Mutter  I' 
or  •  Maman  !'  and  there  you  have  the  character  at  once  ! 
.  .  .  There's  my  son  Ernest,  the  bank  manager.  Now 
that  he  is  married  to  a  girl  from  the  German  side  we  see 
practically  nothing  of  him.  We  don't  get  on,  she  and  I, 
somehow.  She  can't  take  a  joke  at  all,  and  the  least 
trifle  upsets  her.  .  .  .  Besides,  it's  always  a  pity,  I 
think,  to  bring  cross-strains  into  a  family.  You  never 
can  tell  how  much  this  crossing  of  races  is  going  to  affect 
the  population  of  a  country  as  a  whole.  .  .  .  When  you 
marry,  Belisaire,  take  my  advice  and  choose  a  girl  of 
your  own  country.  I  don't  mean  to  say  that  there  are 
not  very  decent  people  belonging  to  other  countries; 
they're  all  very  well  in  their  way,  but  they  haven't  the 
same  way  of  looking  at  things.  ..." 
Belisaire  agreed  with  him* 

It  was  a  decided  shock  to  Potterat  when  one  day  some 
workmen  came  to  him  for  the  key  of  the  old  cemetery. 
Their  ribald  jokes  annoyed  him. 

"  You  don't  mean  to  say  it's  true  that  they're  going  to 
build  there  ?" 

"  Oh  yes,  it's  true  enough.  They're  going  to  have  the 
new  school  there." 

"  And  the  trees  ?  .  .  ." 

"  We're  to  cut  them  down." 

"  Well,  indeed !  That's  a  nice  sort  of  thing  to 
do  !  .  .  ." 

"  It's  none  of  our  business.  We  do  what  we're  paid 
to  do.  .  .  ." 

So  the  noise  of  the  axes,  and  the  cracking  of  a  tree 
before  it  finally  collapses,  were  to  be  heard  daily  at 
Eglantine  Cottage.  Presently,  the  curtain  of  foliage 
removed,  a  huddled  crowd  of  roofs,  the  upper  windows 
of  a  hotel,  a  high  blank  wall,  stood  out  nakedly  before 
the  eyes  of  its  inmates. 


70  POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR 

"  What  fools  there  are  in  this  world  I"  thought  Pot- 
terat.     ft  Well,  anyhow,  they  won't  get  me  to  budge." 

During  a  mild  November,  he  busied  himself  in  trenching 
a  piece  of  ground  that  he  intended  to  plant  in  the  spring. 
He  dug  in  impartially  snail-shells  and  colchicums;  the 
setting  sun  bathed  the  Lake  in  a  red  glow;  some  swans 
were  flying  heavily  close  to  the  water.  As  he  worked, 
Potterat  meditated. 

"  Well !  .  .  .  they  won't  succeed  in  turning  me  out 
of  my  little  corner  here — my  little  house,  where  one  seems 
to  be  in  communion  with  the  water,  the  sky,  the  earth. 
In  imagination  one  can  sail  on  the  Lake;  sometimes  one 
could  easily  imagine  oneself  flying  over  it  like  the  gulls. 
.  .  .  I've  quarrelled  with  the  son-in-law,  certainly,  but 
that's  rather  a  blessing  than  otherwise  .  .  .  apart  from 
that,  we're  perfectly  happy  here.  ..." 

On  his  way  back  to  the  house,  Potterat  was  feeling  in 
particularly  good  spirits;  the  short  grass  strewn  with 
dead  leaves  rustled  under  his  feet ;  the  little  brook  trickled 
pleasantly  along  its  gravelly  bed.  The  house,  lit  up 
by  the  last  rays  of  the  sun,  shone  out  from  a  setting 
of  red  and  yellow  autumn  foliage.  The  moment  he 
opened  the  door,  his  wife  said : 

"  Have  you  heard  the  news,  David  ?  Schmid  has  sold 
his  house  and  garden." 

The  announcement  struck  Potterat  like  a  blast  of  cold 
air,  as  he  took  off  his  hat. 

"  Francoise  !  .  .  .  You're  not  joking,  are  you  ?  .  .  . 
Do  you  mean  to  say  that  the  curmudgeon  has  sold  ?  .  .  . 
Schmid  ?  .  .  .  Well !  .  .  .  But  perhaps  it's  all  for  the 
best.  .  .  .  He  was  a  disgrace  to  the  neighbourhood.  .  .  . 
Well,  I'm  more  determined  than  ever,  now,  that  I  won't 
go  out  of  here  alive." 

"  Bravo  !"  applauded  Belisaire. 

"  But  how  did  you  hear  about  this,  seeing  that  we're 
not  on  speaking  terms  with  them  ?" 


POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR  71 

"  Louise  told  me.  .  .  .  Twenty-three  francs  the  square 
metre  Mauser  is  giving  them  for  it.  .  .  .  It's  quite  a 
fortune.  .  .  .  There  they  are,  almost  gentlefolk,  able 
to  live  on  their  money.  .  .  .  But  you  know  what  Justin 
is.  .  .  .  He  never  thinks  he  has  enough.  .  .  .  Instead 
of  retiring  and  living  comfortably,  he  has  gone  and 
rented  a  farm  at  Vidy." 

"  Oh,  he's  a  regular  money-grubber,  that  fellow.  .  .  . 
In  the  next  world  he'll  manage  somehow  to  make  money 
.  .  .  he'll  be  Satan's  doorkeeper !  .  .  .  But  what's 
Mauser  going  to  do  with  the  ground  ?" 

"  Nobody  knows." 

"If  he  builds  a  villa  it  won't  be  quite  so  bad,  but  if 
he's  going  to  put  up  one  of  those  rabbit-warrens  of  flats 
of  his,  we'll  have  to  moulder  in  the  shade  of  it  for  the  rest 
of  our  days,  I  suppose.  .  .  .  We'll  have  mushrooms 
growing  under  our  beds.  .  .  .  Damnation  !  .  .  .  It's 
killing  that  beastly  rabbit  of  his  that  has  brought  this 
upon  us.  .  .  .  These  glum,  silent  people  can  be  spiteful, 
can't  they  ?  .  .  .  And  to  think  that  he's  a  son-in-law 
of  mine  !  .  .  .  If  I  could  have  my  life  over  again,  I 
would  never  have  any  children.  Up  to  the  time  they 
marry  they  are  all  very  well;  after  that  it's  nothing  but 
trouble  and  vexation  and  quarrelling,  and  all  the  rest  of  it." 

Now  and  then  Potterat  would  go  into  the  old  cemetery 
during  the  dinner-hour,  to  see  how  things  were  going 
there.  The  workmen  ate  their  dinner,  sitting  on  a  wall, 
in  the  midst  of  tree-trunks,  planks,  bones,  and  grinning 
skulls  peering  through  the  holes. 

"  You  ought  to  be  ashamed  !  .  .  .  People  that  you 
have  known,  that  you  used  to  pass  the  time  of  day  with, 
even  have  drunk  with  !  .  .  .  To  root  them  up  like  that 
from  their  last  sleep  !  .  .  ." 

The  workmen's  reply  was  always  the  same: 

"  It's  all  in  the  day's  work.  We're  paid  to  do  it.  .  .  . 
And  after  all,  better  turn  the  dead  out  than  the  living. ..." 


72  POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR 

"  Unfortunately,  the  one  doesn't  prevent  the  other.  .  ,  . 
Mauser  looks  after  the  living.  ..." 

"  Mauser  ?  .  .  .  That's  the  man  who's  going  to  build 
a  block  of  twenty-four  flats  just  beside  your  place, 
isn't  it  ?  .  .  ." 

"  Only  twenty-four  !  .  .  .  Why  not  thirty  ?  ...  Oh, 
I  thought  as  much  !  .  .  .  Pity  we  can't  go  back  to  the 
time  when  people  ran  naked  in  the  woods.  .  .  .  Nowa- 
days, with  these  speculations  in  building  land  and  all 
that,  one  has  nothing  but  worry  and  trouble  and  ex- 
asperation at  every  turn.  .  .  .  They  persecute  the 
living,  and  they  dig  up  the  dead.  Above  ground  or  below 
one  has  no  peace.  ..." 

"  Well,  why  not  sell,  like  the  rest  ?"  .  .  . 

"  Sell  ?  .  .  .  You  might  as  well  ask  a  man  to  sell 
his  wife  and  family  as  to  sell  his  ground.  .  .  .  For  the 
matter  of  that,  a  man  very  often  has  nothing  but 
disappointment  with  his  family,  whereas  with  his  land 
he  has  only  to  sow  and  reap  his  harvest.  .  .  .  And 
what  about  the  "trees  he  has  planted  ?  .  .  .  And  the 
flowers  he  has  grown  ?  .  .  .  And  his  favourite  seat 
under  his  trees  ?   .  .  .  Sell  ?...." 

Potterat  shook  his  head  and  went  on  sadly: 

"  I  say !  You've  dug  up  the  grave  of  the  poor  little 
English  girl !  .  .  .  Only  eighteen,  she  was.  .  .  .  What 
a  shame  !  .  .  .  And  now  you're  coming  to  Moj eon's 
grave,  Adrian's  father,  you  know.  He  died  at  eighty- 
four.  One  of  the  finest  old  fellows  I  ever  knew.  .  .  . 
Oh,  I  knew  them  all.  ...  I  never  thought  I  should  see 
their  bones  again  like  this.  .  .  .  My  God  !  What  hellish 
doings  !  .  .  ." 
And  Potterat  walked  home,  the  tears  in  his  eyes. 

At  the  beginning  of  February,  some  men  invaded 
Schmid's  deserted  garden,  and  began  the  work  of  devas- 
tation.   Trees  were  uprooted,  the  little  apricot-tree  sawn 


POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR  73 

through,  the  hedge  broken  down  to  make  a  passage  way 
for  huge  waggons  of  building  material;  deep  ruts  filled 
with  mud  were  to  be  seen  everywhere,  planks  were  thrown 
down  on  the  boxwood  borders;  a  mean  little  shanty  was 
run  up  where  bags  of  cement  were  stacked.  ...  In 
the  evenings  the  desecrated  garden  was  over-run  by  boys 
who  came  to  cut  switches,  to  steal  the  parsley,  etc.,  just 
beginning  to  grow  again ;  at  night  the  place  was  depressing 
beyond  words;  in  the  daytime  the  continual  noise  of 
heavy  carts,  of  the  shouts  of  their  drivers,  of  swearing, 
of  whip-cracking,  as  the  obstinate  horses  planted  their 
four  feet  wide  apart  and  refused  to  budge,  of  stones 
rolling  down  like  an  avalanche  when  the  carts  were 
tilted  up.  Already  the  pickaxes  were  busy  on  the  twin 
cottage;  its  roof- tiles  were  off,  and  the  garret  could  be 
seen  through  the  bare  rafters.  Doors  and  windows  had 
been  taken  away.  Bricks  and  stones  fell  to  the  ground 
in  clouds  of  dust  and  plaster,  chimney-flues  were  outlined 
in  black  on  the  dividing  wall.  .  .  .  The  house-breakers' 
blows  resounded  intolerably  through  the  Potterats' 
house,  and  the  cups  danced  on  their  shelves. 

"  There's  Mauser  and  the  architect,"  said  Belisaire. 
"  They're  looking  at  our  garden.  ...  Don't  they  look 
like  bears  in  their  big  fur  coats  ?  .  .  ." 

"  Of  course.  They  try  to  look  like  the  wild  beasts 
they  are  as  much  as  they  can.  .  .  .  And  to  think  that 
one  is  given  a  reward  for  killing  foxes  and  otters,  yet 
for  killing  one  of  these  brutes  one  would  get  thirty  years' 
penal  servitude.  .  .  .  Good  Lord  !  the  world  is  a  funny 
place  !  .  .  ." 

It  was  a  very  trying  time.  Madame  Potterat,  racked 
with  headache,  gave  up  attempting  to  cope  with  the  dust 
which  came  in  at  every  crevice. 

"  This  noise  will  drive  me  crazy.  .  .  .  Even  at  night 
I  can  still  hear  the  hammering.  .  .  .  Look  here,  David, 
if  one  has  a  good  chance  why  not  take  advantage  of  it  ? 


74  POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR 

.  .  .  Just  think  !  A  five-story  block  of  fiats  scarcely 
half  a  dozen  yards  away  I  .  .  .  Think  of  the  noise,  the 
gloominess,  the  damp.,  .  .  .  We  shall  all  get  rheumatism ; 
the  boy  will  become  anaemic  for  want  of  air  and  light; 
and  you  won't  have  much  pleasure  in  cultivating  your 
garden  under  the  eyes  of  a  hundred  and  fifty  people.  .  .  . 
Oh  no,  it's  absolutely  impossible.  .  .  .  This  place  was 
pretty,  one  of  the  prettiest  places  I've  ever  seen,  and 
we've  been  very  happy  here  .  .  .  but  it's  done  for  now. 
.  .  .  What  is  the  good  of  being  obstinate  ?  .  .  .  Far 
better  to  sell  while  we  have  the  chance.  ..." 

Crossly,  roughly,  Potterat  answered: 

"  All  right !  .  .  .  That's  enough  !  .  .  .  You  can  sell 
it  the  day  after  I'm  buried  !" 

One  morning,  when  Potterat  had  gone  to  have  a  friendly 
chat  and  grumble  with  Bigarreau,  Mauser  came  over  and 
leant  familiarly  on  the  hedge  near  which  Madame  Pot- 
terat was  hanging  out  some  clothes.  He  made  a  remark 
or  two  about  the  weather,  then  little  by  little  he  worked 
round  gradually  to  the  subject  he  wanted  to  talk  about. 

"I'm  really  distressed  at  having  to  build  so  near  your 
garden.  ...  But  business  is  business.  .  .  .  Why  don't 
you  hurry  up  and  sell  your  ground  ?  .  .  .  Take  advan- 
tage of  the  opportunity.  .  .  .  That's  the  whole  secret 
of  success  in  life,  to  see  and  seize  opportunities.  .  .  . 
Yours  is  a  very  pretty  little  house,  but  it's  very  old.  .  .  . 
Besides,  you  have  to  think  of  your  boy's  future  He's 
such  a  fine,  clever-looking  boy.  .  .  .  But  to  educate 
him  as  he  ought  to  be  educated  costs  a  lot.  You  want 
to  have  a  nest-egg  in  the  bank.  .  .  .  And  now's  your 
chance  of  getting  that.  .  .  .  Your  son-in-law  has 
profited  by  the  opportunity,  as  you  see  .  .  .  twenty- 
three  francs  a  metre.  .  .  .  There  you  are  !  Twenty- 
three  francs  put  on  each  square  metre  of  your  ground 
here  would  take  some  time  to  pick  up,  hey  ?  .  .  .  That's 
a  fery  goot  price,  hein  ?  .  .  ." 


POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR  75 

When  Madame  Potterat  repeated  this  conversation  to 
her  husband  he  shrugged  his  shoulders  in  silence. 

"  All  right !  All  right !  .  .  .  It's  no  use  talking 
about  it.  .  .  .*' 

A  few  days  after,  Bigarreau  came  into  Potterat 's 
garden  with  an  air  of  excitement  and  worry. 

"  I  say,  Potterat,  what  would  you  do  in  my  place  ? 
Mauser  has  been  at  my  wife.  He  wants  to  buy  that  piece 
of  our  ground  down  by  the  Lake,  between  you  and  the 
Lake,  you  know.  .  .  .  My  wife  wants  me  to  sell.  .  .  . 
And  that  bit  of  ground  is  all  sand  and  gravel  .  .  .  nothing 
will  grow  there.  ..." 

"  Old  man,  do  you  remember  what  Belisaire  said  ?  .  .  . 
The  fox  is  going  his  rounds.  ...  He  evidently  thinks 
us  ready  to  be  exploited.  .  .  .  We  old  people  who  have 
lived  here  so  long,  that  have  taken  root  here,  are  we  to 
let  ourselves  be  turned  out  for  money  ?  .  .  .  Quietly 
and  by  degrees  bits  of  the  country  here  and  there  are 
being  annexed.  ...  If  it  goes  on  much  longer,  this 
invasion  of  the  country  and  cultivated  land  by  towns 
and  buildings,  we  shall  soon  be  a  nation  only  in  the 
history  books.  .  .  .  By-and-by  they'll  have  a  wall  of 
houses  round  the  Lake  and  these  foreigners  and  their 
scullions  will  look  out  of  the  windows  at  us  behind  the 
wall.  .  .  .  Well,  then  they  may  '  ring  down  the  curtain  ' 
on  Switzerland.  We  shall  retire  into  the  background 
of  the  country,  we  shall  pine  away  in  the  shade,  we  shall 
grow  mushrooms  in  the  hollows  of  our  cheeks.  .  .  .  We 
shall  be  so  musty  and  worm-eaten  that  we  shall  fall  to 
pieces.  .  .  .  Oh,  there,  I  won't  talk  any  more  about 
it.  .  .  .  Besides,  what  can  I  say  to  you  ?  .  .  .  If  the 
women  want  a  thing,  they'll  have  it.  .  .  ." 

Bigarreau  went  off  rubbing  his  ear. 

But  the  person  most  upset  by  all  these  events  was 
Belisaire.  These  blows  of  pick  and  hammer,  the  clouds 
of  white  dust  which  lay  thick  on  his  vegetable  beds,  all 


76  POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR 

these  men  who  watched  his  going  and  coming,  all  these 
jumbled  roofs  exposed  to  view  by  the  cutting  down  of 
the  trees,  were  things  which  disgusted  and  depressed  him 
beyond  measure.  .  .  .  And  then,  too,  this  plaster  dust 
made  one  thirsty.  If  a  man  has  to  swallow  dust  all  day 
long,  to  breathe  it,  you  can't  wonder  that  his  throat  gets 
dry.  .  .  .  Anyhow,  Belisaire  took  to  drink  again,  to 
coming  in  late  at  nights,  singing  some  mournful  dirge  in 
a  voice  very  much  out  of  tune,  and  stumbling  up  the 
wooden  staircase,  grumbling  as  he  went : 

"  Oh  yes,  I'm  fed  up  with  it  all.  .  .  .  One  of  these 
fine  days  I'll  take  to  the  road  again  with  my  pack  on  my 
back.  .  .  ,  Better  to  die  in  the  woods  than  to  live  in 
this  plaster-dust.  ...  I'll  be  my  own  master.  ...  I 
tell  you  I'm  going  to  die  decently,  properly  .  .  .  free 
and  proud  .  .  .  proud  and  free.  ...  Hi !  you  people 
up  there,  let's  have  a  bit  of  a  song.  ...  '  Up,  up,  the 
sun  is  high  !'  .  .  ." 

A  door  opened  and  Potterat  appeared,  clad  in  a 
voluminous  nightshirt. 

"  Now  then,  Belisaire.  Stop  that  nonsense  about  sun- 
rise. ...  It's  half-past  twelve  at  night.  ...  It's  all 
very  well  your  getting  a  little  bit  screwed;  in  the  cir- 
cumstances one  wouldn't  say  a  word,  if  only  a  man 
came  home  quietly.  .  .  .  There  now  !  You  can  sing 
to-morrow  ...  go  to  bed  now.  ..." 

"  Who  are  you  talking  to  ?  .  .  .  I'm  a  free  man,  ain't 
I  ?  .  .  .  No  human  being  has  the  right  to  tell  another 
human  being  to  go  to  bed.  ..." 

"  That's  all  right !  .  .  .  That's  all  right !  .  .  .  Now, 
go  to  bed.  .  .  ." 

"  Oh,  I  don't  mind  going  to  bed.  .  .  .  I'll  go  to  bed 
all  right.  .  .  .  But  don't  you  think  you're  going  to  put 
old  Belisaire  in  a  cage.  .  .  .  He  was  born  in  a  ditch,  and 
he'll  die  behind  a  hedge.  .  .  .     Good-night.  .  .  ." 

"  Good-night,  Belisaire." 


POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR  77 

Potterat  went  back  to  bed  more  upset  by  this  little 
incident  than  he  cared  to  admit.  For  quite  a  quarter 
of  an  hour  he  remained  awake,  stretched  on  his  back,  his 
hands  clasped  behind  his  head,  feverish,  worried,  turning 
over  a  hundred  plans  in  his  mind. 

"  Aren't  you  going  to  sleep,  David  ?" 

"  Yes,  yes,  I'm  going  to  sleep." 
'  You're  letting  all  this  worry  you  far  too  much.  ..." 

"I'd  just  like  to  have  that  Mauser  here  beside  me 
now  !  .  .  .     I'd  smother  him  like  a  shot.  ..." 

"  Oh,  go  to  sleep." 

"  I  won't  if  I  don't  want  to." 

"  Don't  be  silly,  dear.    Go  to  sleep." 

"  Who  are  you  talking  to  ?  .  .  ." 

In  the  morning  he  was  irritable  and  suspicious.  He 
leaned  out  of  a  window  to  see  what  was  being  done  in 
the  twin  house — the  wallpapers  in  strips,  a  hole  in  the 
ceiling,  the  staircase  gone  all  but  three  steps  which 
remained  hanging  in  space,  and  the  shutters  lying  in  a 
heap  on  the  curb  of  the  well,  the  window-panes  broken 
or  cracked,  the  old  oak  door,  the  bolts  of  which  had 
guarded  the  house  from  thieves  for  centuries,  perhaps, 
thrown  down  anyhow  on  the  ground.  .  .  .  About  five 
yards  from  the  hedge  overlooking  Potterat's  garden 
throughout  its  whole  length,  some  poles  taller  than  the 
mast  of  a  ship  marked  the  place  of  the  future  building. 

One  bleak  windy  evening  in  March,  when  a  strong 
north-easter  was  blowing,  Belisaire  came  back  from  the 
public-house  in  such  a  state  that  he  did  not  attempt  to 
enter  the  house,  but  passed  the  night  in  the  garden, 
stretched  on  a  bench  behind  the  hazel-trees.  Towards 
daybreak  he  woke  and  climbed  to  his  little  room,  but 
did  not  come  down  to  breakfast.  .  .  .  Towards  nine 
o'clock,  Potterat  began  to  be  uneasy,  and  went  up  to  his 
room. 

"  What's  the  matter,  Belisaire  ?" 


78  POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR 

"Nothing.  .  .  ." 

His  beard  pointing  up  to  the  ceiling,  his  face  thin  and 
drawn,  the  old  man  was  gazing  fixedly  at  the  lime-tree 
branch  which  the  wind  sent  swaying  across  the  little 
round  window. 

"  Is  it  true  that  you  slept  outside  last  night  ?  .  .  .  In 
that  north-easter  ?  It's  enough  to  give  you  double  pneu- 
monia !  .  .  .  That's  a  nice  sort  of  thing  to  do  !  .  .  . 
Look  here,  Belisaire,  you're  letting  all  this  upset  you  too 
much.  We'll  have  a  place  to  ourselves  again  soon,  you'll 
see.  Buck  up,  old  man.  ...  In  the  meantime,  with 
that  face  of  yours,  I  think  I'd  better  go  for  a  doctor.  ..." 

Belisaire  still  gazed  fixedly  at  the  swaying  branches. 

By  the  time  the  doctor,  a  tall  fair  man  with  a  square 
chin,  arrived,  Belisaire  was  delirious,  raving  and  laughing 
at  the  visions  he  saw.  This  lasted  two  days.  Then 
another  couple  of  days  of  silence,  broken  only  by  the 
quick  breathing  growing  ever  shorter,  more  whistling. 
And  presently  there  lay  upon  that  bed  only  the  poor  thin 
form,  scarcely  raising  the  clothes,  only  a  sharp  white 
face  with  a  straggling  beard,  with  wide-open  eyes,  blue 
as  the  distant  sky,  gazing  still  at  the  lime-tree  branch. 
Those  eyes  Potterat  reverently  and  tenderly  closed. 

"  Good-bye,  Belisaire,  old  boy  !"  said  he,  with  tears  in 
his  voice. 

And  to  his  wife,  who  came  in  just  then,  with  Carlo 
clinging  to  her  skirts,  he  added: 

"  Just  to  think  that  for  sixty-eight  years  he  tramped 
the  roads,  and  now  he  is  at  rest !  .  .  ." 

Carlo,  eager  to  know  what  a  dead  man  looked  like,  more 
curious  than  afraid  as  yet,  stood  on  tiptoe  to  see  better. 

"  Yes,"  his  father  said,  "  look  well  at  that  face.  That's 
the  face  of  an  honest  man  .  .  .  perhaps  you'll  never  see 
another  so  honest  in  the  whole  of  your  career.  .  .  . 
Look  at  it  well.  .  .  .  That's  what  Belisaire  was,  an 
honest  man,  ..." 


POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR  79 

Soon  afterwards,  Potterat  was  sitting,  twisting  his  hat 
round  and  round,  in  Pastor  Bernier's  study. 

"  And  this  good  man,  did  he  go  to  any  church  while 
he  was  with  you  ?  .  .  .  Do  you  know  what  his  religious 
views  were  ?  .  .  ." 

"  To  tell  you  the  truth,  sir,  I  don't  think  he  believed 
in  any  one  religion  more  than  another.  .  .  .  He  didn't 
seem  to  belong  to  any  creed,  neither  in  opinions  nor  in 
going  to  church.  ...  As  far  as  I  could  gather,  he  had 
been,  as  a  young  boy,  with  some  people  who  professed 
very  strict  principles,  but  who  had  no  religion  in  their 
hearts,  and  ill-treated  him.  That  gave  him  a  dislike  to  all 
established  forms  of  religion.  .  .  .  He  loved  the  open 
roads,  the  moon,  the  hedges,  the  woods,  ...  a  regular 
tramp  he  was.  Now  and  then,  perhaps,  he  would  do  a 
little  begging,  or  even  pinch  a  fowl,  or  some  fruit.  .  .  . 
But  no  real  harm  in  him.  .  .  .  That's  the  sort  of  man 
he  was.  .  .  .  When  I  was  in  the  Police,  we  used  to  run 
him  in  regularly  every  autumn  when  the  weather  turned 
cold,  keep  him  in  for  the  winter,  and  let  him  out  again 
in  the  spring.  ...  I'll  go  bail,  sir,  that  you  bury  every 
day  religious  people  who  wouldn't  be  a  patch  on  him. 
.  .  .  He  was  a  real  good  man  in  his  way.  ...  As  gentle 
as  a  lamb.  .  .  .  Never  a  thought  of  vengeance  on  those 
who  had  treated  him  so  badly.  .  .  .  The  worst  fault  he 
had  was  a  tendency  to  drink  more  than  was  good  for  him, 
in  the  hours  of  slackness  that  we  all  go  through,  but  even 
when  he  was  drunk,  he  was  quiet  and  well-behaved, 
never  made  a  row,  or  threw  things  about.  .  .  .  And  he 
was  not  one  of  those  who  drink  for  days  at  a  stretch. 
Altogether,  he  was  one  of  the  very  best.  .  .  .  Honest 
and  good  at  heart,  but  a  perfect  fool  in  business  matters. 
.  .  .  There,  that's  the  certificate  I'd  sign  for  him  with 
both  hands.  ..." 

"  And  he  lived  with  you  ?  .  .  ." 

"  Naturally !  .  .  .    He    was    old,    quite    grey,    rheu- 


8o  POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR 

maticky,  always  running  at  the  eyes.  ...  I  have  a 
garden,  with  just  enough  work  for  two  people.  ...  To 
make  a  long  story  short,  I  adopted  him  one  evening  that 
I  found  him  in  my  garden." 

"  Was  he  married  ?" 

"  Not  to  my  knowledge,  sir.  ...  He  couldn't  bear 
women.  ...  He  was  all  for  the  open  air.  .  .  .  Oh,  he 
was  quite  a  sort  of  hermit !  .  .  .  not  a  ghost  of  a  notion 
about  money-making;  he  didn't  understand  people,  and 
few  people  understood  him;  he  only  wanted  sun  and 
fresh  air.  .  .  .  And  yet  people  would  have  come  from 
far  and  near  to  hear  him  play  his  ocarina,  if  only  they 
had  known  about  it.  He  was  a  real  musician,  sir.  .  .  . 
As  I  often  used  to  say,  how  many  people  there  are  who 
lead  a  double  life,  have  illegitimate  children  all  over  the 
place,  the  kind  of  men  who  wear  smart  overcoats,  who 
have  their  safes  full  of  money  and  shares,  who  upset 
whole  neighbourhoods,  and  embitter  honest  folk  by 
surrounding  their  bits  of  ground  with  high  blocks  of  flats 
like  the  Tower  of  Babel,  and  when  they  die,  are  given 
grand  funerals ;  yet  Belisaire  will  be  miles  ahead  of  them 
in  the  kingdom  of  Heaven.  ..." 

"  Belisaire,  his  name  was,  you  say  ?  .  .  ." 

"  Yes,  sir.  His  real  name  was  Noverraz,  I  believe. 
But  the  name  he  always  went  by  was  Belisaire.  ...  He 
never  liked  to  be  called  anything  else.  ...  So  you'll 
know,  sir,  the  sort  of  thing  that  will  be  suitable. for  his 
burial.  .  .  .  Not  exactly  a  sermon,  but  just  some 
verses  from  the  Bible,  two  or  three  words,  friendly  and 
simple,  a  bit  of  a  prayer.  .  .  ." 

"  I  know,  I  know !  .  .  .  Well,  I  have  enjoyed  our 
little  talk  very  much,  Monsieur  Potterat.  You  are  a 
great  student  of  human  nature,  I  see." 

"  Well,  sir,  I  ought  to  know  something  about  it.  .  .  . 
I  have  spent  thirty  years  of  my  life  dealing  with  hopeless 
cases.  ...    I  know  them  through  and  through,   the 


POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR  81 

worst  and  the  best  of  them.  ...  I  know  their  little 
ways  from  beginning  to  end.  ...  I  had  to  be  pretty 
wide  awake  and  sharp  to  be  up  to  all  their  dodges.  .  .  . 
And  then  one  hears  things  .  .  .  and  one  remembers  .  .  . 
and  puts  two  and  two  together.  ..." 

As  soon  as  he  reached  home,  Potterat  wrote  to  Delessert, 
his  old  sergeant: 

"  Dear  Friend, 

"  Belisaire  is  dead.  He  is  to  be  buried  on  Thurs- 
day at  three  o'clock.  It  occurred  to  me  that  as  he  has 
been  so  many  times  in  our  hands,  it  might  be  a  little 
mark  of  attention  if  two  or  three  of  the  police  in  uniform 
came  to  the  funeral.  This  would  please  him,  and  it  will 
please  me.    Try  your  best  to  arrange  it.     In  haste. 

*'  Yours,  etc., 

"  David  Potterat/' 

At  the  appointed  day  and  hour,  Potterat,  Carlo, 
Bigarreau,  Regamey,  Giron,  and  some  other  friends,  and 
four  members  of  the  police  force  in  full  parade  uniform, 
helmets,  epaulettes,  and  white  gloves,  etc.,  accompanied 
Belisaire's  coffin,  simply  garlanded  with  primroses,  to 
the  cemetery.  At  the  graveside  were  waiting  eight 
members  of  the  Band,  frequent  visitors  to  Eglantine 
Cottage,  standing  in  the  shade  of  a  cypress  with  their 
instruments.  And  they  had  brought  Potterat's  cornet. 
The  pastor  blessed  the  grave,  into  which  a  pale,  wintry 
sun  shone;  then  they  lowered  into  the  bosom  of  his 
Mother  Earth  this  son  of  hers  who  had /for  so  many 
years  wandered  under  the  spring  showers,  %ho  had  loved 
the  fields,  slept  under  the  starry  sky,  £nown  hunger  and 
cold,  but  also  the  music  of  running  water,  and  the  delights 
of  summer  evenings.  .  .  .  Then,  at  a  sign  from  the 
leader,  all  the  instruments  were  raised,  and  the  solemn 
notes  of  the  Funeral  March  rang  out  over  the  silent 
graves,  lingering  on  the  last  note  as  if  loath  to  leave  off. 

6 


82  POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR 

.  .  .  The  four  police  officers  saluted.     The  ceremony  was 
over.   .   .  . 

"  Well  now,  there  he's  fixed  up  !  .  .  ."  said  Potterat. 
"  He  ought  to  be  content.  ...  I've  seen  dozens  of 
grand  funerals,  with  flags,  and  crowns,  and  wreaths,  and 
a  crowd  of  mourners,  most  of  them  talking  and  laughing 
as  usual  before  they  had  got  out  of  the  cemetery.  .  . 
but  I  tell  you  I've  never  seen  one  more  beautiful  than 
this  of  Belisaire's.  .  .  .  Just  a  prayer  .  .  .  and  the 
trumpets.  .  .  .  But  what  made  it  so  fine  was  that  everyone 
who  was  there  brought  sincerity  with  him.  ..." 

Potterat  now  worked  alone  in  his  garden.  After  an 
hour  or  two  of  the  ceaseless  sound  of  hammering  and 
digging,  he  came,  exasperated  and  grumbling,  into  the 
house. 

M  Well,  what  do  you  expect  ?  .  .  .  We  can't  do  any- 
thing ..."  said  his  wife.  "  We  knew  it  would  be  like 
this.  .  .  ." 

"  Well,  '  what  can't  be  cured,  can  be  endured,'  I 
suppose.  ..." 

"  If  you  like.  .  .  .  By-and-by  there  will  be  two 
hundred  people  or  so  at  the  windows,  watching  our  every 
movement.  ..." 

"  Well,  let  them  stare.  .  .  .  We  can  just  spit  at 
them.  .  .  ." 

Mi-Fou  purred  contentedly,  to  the  accompaniment  of 
the  singing  kettle.  From  the  distance  came  a  regular 
1  Boom  !  .  .  .     Boom  !  .  .  .     Boom  !  .  .  .' 

'  Wow  !  .  .  .  this  row  will  drive  me  crazy  !  .  .  ." 

"  Oh,  don't  talk  like  that,  David.  .  .  .  It's  very 
annoying,  certainly,  but  things  might  be  worse.  Let 
us  move.  We  shall  find  a  place  that  you  will  like  .  .  . 
with  a  nice  garden.  ..." 

"  Move  ?  .  .  .  Ah,  now  you're  showing  your  hand. 
.  .  .  Never !  .  .  .    Do   you  hear  ?  .  .  .     Never  !  .  .  ." 


POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR  83 

and  Potterat  banged  his  great  fist  upon  the  table.  Mi-Fou 
woke  up  with  a  frightened  mew. 

"  And  he  used  to  be  so  happy  !"  thought  Madame 
Potterat  sadly.  "  Never  a  black  look.  .  .  .  Always 
heartening  me  up.  What  will  be  the  end  of  all  this  ?  .  .  . 
Certainly  we  have  had  some  very  happy  times  here,  and 
in  summer  it  was  delightful  watching  the  boats  go 
past,  .  .  .  and  we  have  a  lovely  garden.  .  .  .  But  in 
winter,  when  the  Lake  is  stormy,  it  is  gloomy  enough 
for  anything.  ..." 

Leaning  her  elbows  on  the  table,  Madame  Potterat 
saw  in  imagination  the  lively  streets  of  the  town,  the 
brightly  lit  shops,  the  fine  new  houses  with  their  gay 
balconies.  ...  An  orchestra  was  playing  lively  airs 
in  the  Square.  .  .  .    Then  she  spoke  again : 

"  I  don't  think  it's  right  to  be  so  dreadfully  obstinate. 
.  .  .  What  sort  of  life  will  it  be  for  us  when  these  flats 
are  built  ?  .  .  .  And  we  ought  to  think  of  Carlo  too. 
His  education  will  cost  a  lot.  .  .  .  And  if  we  don't  take 
this  chance  we  shall  very  likely  never  have  another.  .  .  . 
1  A  chance  lost  never  returns !'  .  .  ." 

"  Carlo  !  .  .  .  Don't  talk  to  me  about  ,that  little 
wretch.  He  gets  on  my  nerves !  .  .  ."  and  Potterat 
flung  out  to  the  garden  in  a  rage. 

There  the  disembowelled  house,  hideous  as  an  open 
wound,  stared  him  in  the  face,  with  its  tattered  wallpapers. 
Loud  oaths  and  cracking  of  whips  broke  out  close  by 
...  a  huge  dray,  filled  with  stones,  was  stuck  in  a  rut, 
and  the  waggon  creaked  and  groaned  as  the  smoking 
horses,  trembling  with  fatigue,  strained  at  their  collars. 
.  .  .  Suddenly  there  was  a  sharp  crack,  and  the  plum- 
tree  lay  on  the  ground,  broken  short  off  at  the  roots.  ..." 

"  No !  .  .  .  No !  .  .  .  I  can't  stand  this  sort  of 
thing  !  .  .  ."  muttered  Potterat  to  himself.  "...  Mauser 
offers  ten  thousand  francs  for  the  house,  and  fifty  thousand 
for  the  garden;  with  my  pension,  we  should  be  quite  well 


84  POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR 

off.  .  .  .     We  could  take  a  trip  into  Italy  .  .  .  and  have 
some  good  dinners.  ..." 

Suddenly,  he  pulled  himself  up  sharply,  indignant  with 
that  lower  unworthy  self  which  plays  tricks  with  the 
best  of  us  at  times. 

M  Are  you  mad,  Potterat  ?"  he  asked  himself.  "  Would 
you  sell  yourself  for  money  ?  .  .  .  How  can  you  even 
think  of  such  a  dirty  trick,  with  your  two  feet  standing 
on  your  own  ground  ?  .  .  ."  and  he  went  away,  bitterly 
disappointed  with  himself. 

With  April  came  cold  rains,  alternating  with  bright 
sunshine,  turning  the  waves  of  the  Lake  to  dancing  gold. 
From  the  inside  of  his  shed,  through  the  square  of  the 
open  door,  Potterat  could  see  only  the  unspoilt  half  of 
this  wonderful  site:  trees,  delightful  little  shady  paths, 
the  placid  Lake,  and  always  the  fairylike  beauty  of  the 
mountains,  and  the  promontories.  ...  So  much  beauty 
in  a  country  tends  perhaps  to  a  certain  indolence  and 
lethargy  in  life.  One  is  so  happy  there.  In  old-world 
villages  this  is  clearly  seen.  At  four  o'clock  in  the 
morning  everybody's  chimney  is  smoking:  at  ten  o'clock 
at  night  every  household  is  asleep.  .  .  . 

"  Oh,  decidedly  it's  a  mistake  to  get  too  fond  of  any- 
thing in  life.  .  .  .     Damn  it  all !"  thought  Potterat. 

Presently,  the  shoots  began  to  peep  through  the  hard 
crust  of  the  earth,  pierced  it,  and  burst  into  a  thousand 
leaves.  .  .  .  Then  came  the  raking  of  the  fields  and 
lawns;  tendrils  and  rotten  stalks,  fallen  leaves,  dead 
branches,  were  all  gathered  into  heaps.  The  sky  in  a 
playful  mood  sent  down  a  few  last  snowflakes.  ...  A 
match  strikes;  the  heap  sends  out  smoke  as  some  straw 
catches  here  and  there.  Fanned  by  the  wind,  the  flame 
mounts  higher,  rears  itself  above  the  smoke,  sends  out 
sparks  and  thick  clouds  of  smoke.  .  .  .  Another  armful, 
Carlo  !  .  .  .  The  twigs  crackle  like  castanets;  the  whole 
neighbourhood  smells  the  spring  weed-burning,  all  eyes 
are  red,  all  hearts  are  light,  thinking   of  the  coming 


POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR  85 

summer.  Perched  on  the  topmost  branch  of  a  hazel- 
tree,  a  blackbird  is  wondering  if  he  has  forgotten  how 
to  sing.  .  .  .  Not  a  bit  of  it !  .  .  .  That  went  beauti- 
fully !  .  .  .  Exquisite  summer  days  !  .  .  .  But  Pot* 
terat  grew  more  and  more  depressed,  and  finally,  he 
decided  to  talk  things  over  with  his  friends  at  the  wine- 
shop at  Etraz.  One  evening  then,  over  their  mugs  of 
golden  liquor,  he  unburdened  his  heart.  Regamey, 
Sergeant  Delessert,  Vidoudez,  looked  at  each  other. 

"  Well,  you  have  luck  !"  said  Delessert.  "  We  can 
just  manage  to  scrape  along;  we  think  ourselves  lucky 
if  we  can  make  both  ends  meet.  .  .  .  Half  the  time  we 
are  five  hundred  francs  or  so  short  at  the  end  of  the 
year.  ..." 

Vidoudez  looked  with  disgust  at  his  hands,  stained,  as 
usual,  with  red  ink. 

"  We  have  to  count  every  halfpenny,  mend  every 
hole,  look  sharp  after  our  discounts.  .  .  .  What  can  we 
say  ?  .  .  .  Poor  people  like  us  cannot  advise  moneyed 
people  like  you.  ..." 

Potterat  felt  inclined  to  laugh.  They  actually  envied 
him  !  This  filled  him  with  pride.  He  began,  however, 
to  say : 

"  Our  grandfathers  were  simpler  in  their  ways  than  we 
are.  .--..*' 

"  Oh  yes,  but  the  old  folks  are  dead.  .  .  .  You 
can't  compare  their  time  with  the  present.  ...  Do 
you  want  to  make  your  son  a  peasant  or  a  city  man  ? 
that's  the  whole  question.  ...  If  a  peasant,  then  sell 
and  buy  a  farm  somewhere  about  Penthalaz.  ...  If  a 
city  man,  then  he  must  be  trained  to  it  quite  young.  .  .  . 
But  you  can't  do  both  at  once.  It's  one  or  the  other  if 
you  want  him  to  succeed." 

Presently  they  turned  out  into  the  lively  streets; 
crowds  were  pouring  out  from  the  cinematograph. 

"  For  a  man  with  plenty  of  money,  there  is  nothing 
finer  than  town  life,  but  for  poor  men  the  country  is  best." 


86  POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR 

Thoughtfully  Potterat  wended  his  way  home.  The 
moon  showered  sparks  of  light  upon  the  waves,  and  the 
lights  of  the  little  villages  dotted  over  the  plain  were  like 
so  many  winking  eyes. 

"  There's  no  doubt  about  it.  .  .  .  I  must  either  go 
right  into  the  country  or  give  in.  .  .  .  One  can't  go 
on  being  a  peasant  in  the  middle  of  the  town.  It's  one 
thing  or  the  other.  .  .  .  The  worst  of  it. is  that  in  life 
the  head  pulls  you  one  way,  and  the  heart  another.  .  .  . 
Always  a  struggle  between  them.  .  .  .  Always  suffer- 
ing. .  .  .  One  cannot  struggle  alone  against  the  whole 
of  civilization.  ...     If  it  were  not  for  the  boy.  ..." 

Potterat  told  his  wife  about  the  jealousy  shown  by  his 
friends. 

"  They  were  quite  green  with  envy,  Francoise." 

"  Well,  they  see  it  all  the  more  clearly.  ...  Do  you 
want  Carlo  to  be  a  milkman,  or  a  woodcutter,  or  a  farm- 
hand ?  It's  simply  selfishness  on  your  part.  ...  If 
you  live  in  town  you  must  do  as  townspeople  do.  .  .  . 
To  bring  a  boy  up  on  a  farm  means  that  he  becomes  shy 
and  stupid,  his  boots  are  always  muddy,  he  doesn't 
know  how  to  express  himself,  he  has  not  the  manners  of 
polite  society.  .  .  .  And  you  must  remember  that  you 
yourself  only  took  to  the  land  after  you  had  retired." 

"  Me  !  .  .  .  I  was  always  a  peasant  at  heart.  The 
Vaudois  are  all  peasants  by  origin.  All  the  big  Govern- 
ment officials,  even  those  at  the  top,  have  that  simple 
countrified  air,  the  tanned  skin,  the  sturdy  frame,  the 
big  hands.  .  .  .  Besides,  that's  not  the  point.  You  are 
all  leagued  against  me.  .  .  .  Belisaire  did  the  best  thing 
possible  when  he  took  himself  off  out  of  it  all.  ...  I 
ought  to  have  been  born  twenty-five  years  sooner,  and 
to  have  died  ten  years  ago.  ..." 

"  What  an  old  croaker  you  are,  David." 

"  That's  all  I  am  fit  for,  I  suppose." 

Once  more  he  began  to  sleep  badly.  The  silvery 
trickle  of  the  fountain  in  its  basin  got  on  his  nerves 


POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR  87 

intolerably,  and  as  he  turned  and  turned  again  on  his 
creaking  bed  he  groaned  aloud. 

Then  Burnand  sold  his  land.  The  six  tall  poplars 
which  marked  the  boundary  between  them  at  the  lower 
end  of  his  garden  fell  one  after  another  with  loud  crashes. 
Next  door  they  were  digging  the  foundations  of  the  new 
building,  and  laying  down  drain-pipes  in  cement. 

"  The  whole  place  is  ruined.  ..." 

"  Of  course  it  is.  .  .  .  If  you  don't  sell  now,  it  won't 
be  worth  a  hundred  francs  in  ten  years'  time." 

"  What  do  I  care  ?" 

Carlo  interrupted: 

"  Father,  let  us  go  into'  a  place  where  there  are  other 
boys.  Here,  I  have  no  one  to  play  with.  .  .  .  It's  very 
lonely.  ..." 

"  So  much  the  better,  it  will  teach  you  self-reliance. ..." 

"  You  are  obstinate,  David,"  said  his  wife.  "  What  a 
life  of  it  we  are  going  to  have  !  .  .  .  You  think  only  of 
your  own  pleasure.  ..." 

'*  Now  look  here  !"  and  Potterat  banged  his  fist  on  the 
table,  while  his  eyes  blazed  with  anger.  "  Don't  let  me 
hear  another  word  about  this.  .  .  .  We  shall  die  in  the 
shadow  of  these  buildings,  every  one  of  us.  I'm  master, 
after  all,  so  now  let's  have  no  more  of  it.  .  .  ." 

The  meal  was  dismal  after  this,  naturally.  The  oaths 
of  the  carters  who  were  eating  their  dinners  sitting  under 
a  tree  close  by  took  the  place  of  their  customary  con- 
versation. Madame  Potterat  wiped  her  eyes  from  time 
to  time.  Potterat  stole  a  glance  at  her.  She  was 
crying.  .  .  .  Oh,  these  women !  .  .  .  He  got  up  and 
went  out.  No  one  had  really  eaten  anything.  ...  In 
his  anger  he  walked  straight  on,  scarcely  knowing  where 
he  was  going,  looking  fiercely  at  the  big  gay  shop- windows, 
at  the  smart  motors,  etc.,  reserving  his  sympathy  for 
the  little  shabby  shops  where  some  old  man  or  woman 
waited  patiently  for  a  stray  customer. 

"  Oh,  shut  up  your  shop,  go  upstairs  to  your  garret, 


88  POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR 

and  put  an  end  to  yourself/'  Potterat  imagined  himself 
saying  to  them.  M  People  like  you  are  wanted  no  longer. 
.  .  .  Nowadays,  everything  is  glitter  and  tinsel,  lace 
petticoats,  powdered  faces,  parading  the  streets,  toadying, 
and  trying  to  climb,  putting  on  airs.  .  .  .  Simple 
honest  folk  are  idiots  nowadays.  .  .  .  Ah,  it's  no  use 
struggling — trying  to  swim  against  the  tide.  ...  I 
can't  go  on  quarrelling  from  morning  to  night  with  my 
wife,  with  the  boy,  with  the  devil.  .  .  .  They  are  all 
for  the  town.  Then  let  them  have  it,  for  all  I  care  ! 
.  .  .  On  the  other  hand,  to  take  a  new  garden  at 
my  age,  to  lay  it  out  according  to  my  taste,  to  plant 
trees,  and  all  that.  .  .  .  Why,  it  would  take  years.  .  .  . 
No,  it's  out  of  the  question.  .  .  .  But  to  stay  on 
where  we  are  is  impossible.  I  see  that.  Before  long  it 
will  be  no  better  than  a  cellar.  .  .  .  Hang  it  all,  we'll 
have  to  move,  for  the  boy's  sake  !  .  .  .  Well,  the  good 
old  times  are  over.  .  .  .  Belisaire  dead,  Mi-Fou  on  the 
brink  of  the  grave,  a  wife  who  is  a  good  wife,  certainly, 
but  who  has  all  sorts  of  ideas  in  her  head,  a  boy  who 
thinks  of  nothing  but  speed,  ...  all  my  friends  round 
about  selling  their  ground  to  be  built  over.  .  .  .  Potterat, 
you've  got  to  take  the  plunge,  and  you  may  as  well  get 
it  over.     Make  up  your  mind  to  a  third-floor  flat.  ..." 

It  would  seem  as  if  Fate  ordained  certain  meetings. 
As  Potterat  approached  his  home  again,  he  almost  ran 
into  Mauser,  lurking,  as  usual,  in  a  corner  from  which 
he  could  see  all  that  was  going  on. 

"  Good-day  !"  said  Potterat  gruffly. 

Mauser  at  once  grasped  the  fact  that  this  usually 
jovial  man  was  suffering  the  pangs  of  wounded  pride, 
and  that  he  must  touch  the  open  wound  with  a  light  hand, 
but  that  the  hour  had  come  to  strike. 

"  Good-day,  Monsieur  Potterat,"  he  replied  in  his 
wheedling  voice,  and  then  he  added  slyly:  "  Don't 
be  afraid.  I'm  not  going  to  talk  to  you  about  business 
to-day.     You've  decided  not  to  sell  your  pretty  little 


POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR  89 

place,  and  you're  quite  right.  I'm  not  going  to  bother 
you  any  more.  .  .  .  Every  man  knows  his  own  business 
best,  doesn't  he  ?  .  .  .  People  have  their  habits,  their 
memories;  some  people  care  for  these  things  more  almost 
than  for  their  children.  .  .  .  But,  as  I  say,  let  every 
man  do  as  he  thinks  best,  and  then,  if  things  go  wrong, 
well, .  he  has  only  himself  to  blame.  .  .  .  There  is  a 
right  time  for  everything,  and  all  other  times  are 
wrong.  .  .  ." 

Potterat  was  grateful  to  Mauser  for  his  tact.  Casually, 
to  all  appearance,  he  began  on  the  important  subject. 

"  Well,"  he  said  carelessly,  "  and  supposing  I  did 
eventually  want  to  sell  the  place — say  in  another  three  or 
four  years  or  so — how  much  would  you  offer  me  for  it  ?" 

"  Look  here,  I'm  willing  to  meet  everyone  if  I  can. 
I  gave  your  son-in-law  twenty-three  francs  a  metre  for 
his  ground:  I'll  give  you  twenty-four  for  yours.  .  .  . 
That  is,  naturally,  if  you  like  to  sell  at  once.  We  may 
all  be  dead  three  or  four  years  hence.  .  .  .  And  even  if 
we  were  alive,  the  place  might  very  likely  not  be  worth 
anything  to  me  by  that  time.  I  like  to  get  my  ground 
and  put  up  my  flats  all  at  the  same  time,  on  a  big  scale." 

"  Twenty-five  francs,  you  say  ?" 

"  Twenty-four." 

"  Twenty-four.  And  you  gave  twenty-three,  you  say, 
to  Schmid  ?" 

"  That  is  so.  I'm  offering  you  twenty-four,  Monsieur 
Potterat,  but  I  wouldn't  give  that  to  anyone  else." 

"  And  for  the  house  ?  .  .  ." 

"  I'll  give  you  ten  thousand.  The  house  is  worth 
nothing  in  itself  to  me,  you  know,  only  the  ground  on 
which  it  stands.     That's  for  the  title-deeds." 

"  And  you  would  pay  ready  money  ?" 

"  Ready  money  when  you're  ready,"  and  Mauser 
laughed  at  the  little  stock  joke  with  which  he  favoured 
all  his  clients. 

"  Damn  it  all !  .  .  .     It  is  not  for  myself;  it's  for  my 


go  POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR 

wife,  and  the  boy.  ...  All  right.  We'll  call  it  a 
bargain." 

"  Wrell  then,  to-morrow,  at  ten  o'clock,  at  Lawyer 
Berthod's.     Will  that  suit  you  ?" 

"  Ten  o'clock  ?  Yes,  that  will  suit  me  very  well.  If 
I'm  going  to  make  a  fool  of  myself  I  may  as  well  do  it 
at  ten  o'clock  as  at  eleven.  ..." 

"  Ha,  ha  !     Goot !  .  .  .     Goot !  .  .  ." 

"  Oh,  I  can  make  as  many  jokes  of  that  kind  as  you 
like.  It's  easy  enough  if  you  have  a  quick  wit,  and  a 
ready  tongue.  ...     We  can't  all  be  business  men." 

With  this  little  stab,  Potterat  went  off  home.  In  the 
kitchen  he  found  his  wife  grinding  coffee  with  a  dignified 
air.     He  sank  into  a  chair.     Then,  quite  coolly,  he  said: 

"I'm  sick  of  seeing  people  snivelling  all  round  me. 
You  can  cheer  up  and  order  the  band.  I've  sold  the 
place  to  Mauser  for  twenty-four.  One  more  than 
Schmid." 

"What?"  .  .  .  (How  her  eyes  danced!)  "Do  you 
really  mean  it,  David  ?     You've  sold  it  ?  .  .  ." 

To  hide  his  emotion,  Potterat  drew  his  little  son  over 
to  him. 

"  You  see  how  much  I  must  love  you,  my  boy,  to  play 
this  dirty  trick  on  my  dear  old  garden  for  your  sake." 

Madame  Potterat  put  in  hastily: 

"  Of  course  it's  for  the  boy's  sake.  .  .  .  I'm  just  as 
fond  of  this  place  as  you  are.  ..." 

"  All  right !  All  right !  Shut  up  !  Don't  let's  talk 
any  more  about  it !  When  people  sell  themselves,  body 
and  soul,  it's  no  use  harking  back.  When  things  are 
done,  they're  done,  as  far  as  I'm  concerned  ...  I  strike 
them  out  of  the  orders  of  the  day." 

"  And  you'll  see,  David,  we  shall  be  able  to  find  another 
garden  as  nice  as  this  one.  ..." 

"  No.  I  don't  want  another  garden.  Real  love  comes 
only  once  in  a  lifetime.  .  .  ." 


CHAPTER  IV 

"  Oh,  do  what  you  like  !  Only  stay  in  this  neighbour- 
hood; that's  all  I  ask.  As  long  as  you  get  something 
round  about  here,  I  don't  care  where  we  go,  .  .  .  second- 
floor,  third-floor,  ground-floor,  or  under  the  tiles,  .  .  . 
it's  all  the  same  to  me.    A  flat  is  a  flat." 

1  You  know  very  well  that  it's  not  of  myself  I'm  think- 
ing. .  .  .  But  Carlo  will  be  at  college  next  year.  His 
companions  will  be  boys  whose  people  are  of  some  stand- 
ing. ...  I  should  like  him  to  be  able  to  invite  them  to 
his  home,  and  to  receive  them  properly.  .  .  .  First 
impressions  are  everything,  you  know,  in  life.  .  .  . 
Oh,  we  must  have  a  decent  flat  with  a  hall,  a  good  dining- 
room,  a  pretty  drawing-room.  ..." 

"  Have  it  as  you  like.  Men  are  more  intelligent,  but 
women  are  sharper." 

"...  And  you  will  be  out  a  good  deal  .  .  .  with 
your  fishing,  your  societies,  and  all  that.  .  .  .  You'll 
soon  get  used  to  things." 

"  I'll  have  to.  .  .  .  One  can  get  used  to  a  prison, 
even.  .  .  .  What  I  shall  miss  most  are  my  fowls,  .  .  . 
and  my  beautiful  white  rose-tree,  which  bloomed  from 
May  to  October,  .  .  .  and  the  old  plum-tree,  with  three 
kinds  of  plums  grafted  on  it,  so  that  we  had  yellow  plums 
in  July,  red  plums  in  August,  and  purple  plums  in 
September.  To  think  of  all  that  being  destroyed  !  .  .  . 
Oh,  that  Mauser !  .  .  .  He  ought  to  have  his  neck 
wrung  !  .  .  ." 

"  Why  couldn't  you  rent  a  piece  of  ground  ?  .  .  ." 

"  No.  .  .  .     If  I'm  to  be  a  gentleman,  I'll  be  a  gentle- 

91 


92  POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR 

man.  Since  we  are  going  to  join  the  ranks  of  the  aris- 
tocracy, let  us  act  accordingly.  .  .  .  No,  no  !  .  .  .  I 
love  this  garden  too  well  to  be  able  to  begin  all  over  again 
with  another.  .  .  .  Besides,  what  good  would  a  garden 
such  as  you  suggest  be  to  me  ?  To  have  any  good  of  a 
garden  you  want  to  be  able  to  open  your  door,  and  be 
right  in  it.  .  .  .  To  have  to  go  out  to  it,  to  unlock 
the  gate  of  it,  and  lock  it  up  again  on  coming  away,  to 
have  to  put  broken  bottles  on  all  the  walls  to  keep  out 
thieves.  .  .  .  No,  no  !  .  .  .  If  a  man  can't  have  his 
supper  in  shirt-sleeves,  and  smoke  his  pipe  directly 
after,  sitting  on  a  bench  under  a  tree,  without  leaving 
his  own  place,  it's  not  the  same  thing  at  all.  .  .  .  Then 
too,  I'm  getting  stouter.  .  .  .  Stooping  brings  all  the 
blood  to  my  head.  I've  had  to  sit  down,  more  than  once, 
on  the  verge  of  apoplexy.  ...  If  I  took  another 
garden,  I  should  want  Belisaire  again,  and  he's  dead  and 
gone.  .  .  .  There  !  Rent  your  flat  as  soon  as  you  like. 
.  .  .  I'll  come  along.  ..." 

"  And  how  long  are  you  going  to  sulk  like  this  ?" 

"I,  sulking  ?  .  .  .  Oh,  don't  you  worry.  I'm  not 
such  a  fool  as  not  to  be  able  to  adapt  myself  to  cir- 
cumstances." 

Incapable  of  any  sort  of  work  in  the  garden  he  was  so 
soon  to  lose,  Potterat  sat  down  not  far  from  the  chicken- 
run.  The  ducks  were  splashing  gaily  in  their  pond;  the 
hens,  cackling  loudly,  left  the  nests  where  they  had  just 
laid  large  round  eggs ;  the  turkey-cock  did  his  goose-step 
up  and  down,  shaking  out  his  red  wattles.  What  birds  ! 
What  flowers  !     What  Spring  gladness  !  .  .  ." 

"  Poor  David !"  said  Madame  Potterat  to  herself. 
"He  feels  it  so  terribly." 

One  evening  she  came  back  radiant. 
"  I've  found  the  very  thing  for  us." 
Potterat  was  presently  conducted  to  an  avenue  which 


POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR  93 

had  not  long  been  made.  The  trees,  planted  recently, 
were  fading  behind  their  little  palisades,  which  still 
smelt  of  varnish.  They  stopped  before  a  new  block  of 
flats,  five  stories  high,  and  entered  a  spacious  hall,  the 
stained-glass  windows  of  which  lit  up  a  frieze,  on  which 
were  repeated,  with  monotonous  regularity,  three  trees, 
a  pond,  and  two  greenish- white  swans.  In  a  prominent 
place,  twelve  letter-boxes,  numbered  from  left  to  right, 
awaited  the  missives  destined  for  twelve  families. 

"  Which  is  our  number  ?"  asked  Potterat. 

"  Six." 

"  All  right !     Here  goes  for  Number  Six  !" 

The  concierge  ran  on  ahead  to  open  the  door,  and  they 
entered  the  flat,  the  windows  of  which  opened  on  one  side 
into  a  central  court;  on  the  other,  on  a  field  which  was 
for  sale. 

"You  see  there  is  quite  a  good  view.  .  .  .  Oh,  it's 
a  charming  flat.  .  .  .  The  wallpapers  are  all  different, 
every  ceiling  has  an  ornament  like  this  in  the  middle, 
of  ears  of  corn  and  grapes.  ...  It  is  the  work  of  an 
Italian  artist.  .  .  .  And  these  beautiful  parquet  floors, 
and  the  balcony  has  electric  light.  .  .  .  All  sorts  of 
up-to-date  comfort,  eh  ?  .  .  ." 

"And  where  are  we  to  put  the  hay?"  interrupted 
Potterat  slily. 

"  Monsieur  is  from  the  country  ?  .  .  ."  inquired  the 
concierge. 

"  Oh,  I  lived  in  the  country  at  one  time.  Now  I'm 
a  man  about  town." 

Madame  Potterat  broke  forth  into  more  explanations: 

?  These  flats,  all  on  the  same  level,  are  so  very  con- 
venient. .  .  .  You  see  what  a  nice  bright  little  kitchen 
it  is.  .  .  .  And  there  is  a  buttery-hatch  too.  .  .  . 
That  is  the  bath-room.  ..." 

"I'll  have  to  get  thinner  before  I  can  get  into  that 
bath  and  out  again.  ..." 


94  POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR 

"  .  .  .  And  this  is  to  be  our  bedroom,  and  this  Carlo's, 
and  that  will  be  a  spare  room.  .  .  .  Here  is  the  drawing- 
room,  isn't  it  lovely  ?  That  handsome  glazed  wall-paper, 
that  corner  bay,  the  oak  doors,  and  this  nice  long  wall 
for  our  looking-glass  and  pictures.  .  .  .  You  must 
have  that  corner  to  sit  and  read  the  paper  in.  .  .  ." 

"  Capital !  Good  idea  !  .  .  .  But  I  mustn't  forget 
always  to  run  and  put  on  my  best  suit,  and  my  white 
kid  gloves  before  I  come  into  this  drawing-room.  ...  I 
shall  be  like  a  Polar  bear  in  a  boudoir.  .  .  .  But 
let's  be  in  the  fashion.  .  .  .  Let's  have  receptions,  and 
balls,  and  garden-parties,  like  the  rest  of  the  fashionable 
world.  ..." 

Bigarreau  having  bought  all  Potterat's  fowls,  Pot- 
terat  took  them  to  him,  two  at  a  time,  in  a  covered 
basket,  to  the  accompaniment  of  squeakings,  and  squawk- 
ings,  and  duckings,  until,  one  evening,  there  was  silence 
in  the  poultry  yard.  This  solitude  and  silence  so 
affected  Potterat  that  he  felt  obliged  to  pull  himself  up 
sternly. 

"This  is  how  one  makes,  little  by  little,  a  cemetery  of 
one's  heart.  People  and  animals  that  one  has  known, 
die  .  .  .  others  change  .  .  .  one  changes  oneself.  .  .  . 
A  thing  that  one  thought  settled  for  life  comes  to  an 
end.  ...  It  is  memory  that  upsets  one  so.  Regret 
for  the  things  that  crumble  away,  for  that  which  is 
silent,  for  those  who  are  dead,  that's  what  takes  the 
heart  out  of  a  man.  .  .  .  Now  then,  pull  yourself 
together,  man !  The  dead  are  dead  .  .  .  the  living  are 
alive.  ...  Be  a  philosopher.  Don't  allow  yourself  to 
sink  into  neurasthenia.  That  doesn't  suit  fat  people. 
By  Jove,  no  !  .  .  .  Far  better  to  laugh  and  be  jolly 
than  to  go  about  with  a  long  face.  .  .  .  You've  been 
Potterat  for  sixty  years  .  »  .  don't  change  now.  ..." 

After  this,  when  his  wife  dwelt  on  the  past,  he  cut 
her  short. 


POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR  95 

"  That'll  do,  that'll  do  !  It's  silly  to  look  back.  .  .  . 
We've  buried  the  past  .  .  .  and  put  a  tombstone  on  it. 
Let's  get  away  from  it  now.  We've  still  got  the  vine- 
yards, the  sunshine,  the  Lake,  slippers,  and  a  few  other 
little  comforts.  .  .  .     Let's  be  thankful  for  those." 

"Ah,  that's  my  merry  David  and  his  fun  come  back 
again  !" 

"  He  had  never  gone  away,  my  dear.  ...  It  was 
smouldering  there  all  the  time  under  the  ashes." 

The  removal  began.  The  smaller  things  were  taken  first, 
and  for  a  time  they  were  neither  at  home  in  one  place  nor 
the  other.  The  portrait  of  Potterat's  first  wife,  leaning 
up  against  a  tree,  seemed  to  be  calling  the  Lake  to  witness 
to  her  neglect,  for  was  not  the  portrait  of  '  the  other ' 
already  in  place  ?  .  .  .  The  heavier  furniture  followed, 
chairs,  tables,  sofas,  cupboards,  piled  up  before  the  shed; 
the  grandfather's  clock-case,  lying  on  the  grass,  looked 
like  a  coffin.  The  beds  were  taken  down,  and  strange 
feet  trampled  the  flowers  in  the  borders;  backs  bent 
under  heavy  burdens. 

At  length,  everything  being  gone,  Potterat  made  a 
last  round  of  the  empty  rooms  where  his  footsteps  echoed. 
.  .  .  Closed  windows,  branches  peeping  in  through  the 
uncurtained  panes  .  .  .  presently,  when  the  shutters 
were  closed,  it  would  be  quite  dark.  ...  All  the  pleasant 
hours  of  homely  tenderness  and  intimacy  rose  before  his 
mind,  and  little  scenes  glided  like  shadows  along  the 
empty  walls.  .  .  .  Here  stood  Carlo's  cradle,  there  the 
coffin  of  poor  Belisaire  .  .  .  the  bed  stood  here,  a  sofa 
there.  .  .  .  And  here  they  used  to  eat,  and  sleep,  and 
wake  to  the  twittering  of  the  swallows.  .  .  .  They  used 
to  wrangle  and  be  reconciled  again,  as  in  all  homes.  .  .  . 
He  used  to  go  down  those  cellar  steps  to  fetch  his  bottle 
of  wine.  .  .  .  He  used  to  play  his  cornet  here.  .  .  . 
"  Go  away,  traitor  !"  the  walls  seemed  to  cry  out  at  him. 
1  You  have  sold  us.  ,  f  ,     Go  !    Leave  us  to  the  dark, 


96  POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR 

alone  with  the  mice,  the  spiders,  and  the  one  ray  of  light 
that  creeps  in  through  the  hole  in  the  shutter. ...  Go ! . . ." 

Moved  to  the  bottom  of  his  heart,  Potterat  took  off 
his  hat  and  said  aloud  as  if  in  answer:  ".One  cannot 
fight  against  Fate.  It  was  Schmid  who  first  turned 
the  neighbourhood  upside  down  !  It  is  Mauser  who  is 
in  league  with  the  devil !  .  .  .  They  are  going  to  pull 
you  down,  dear  old  house  !  All  honour  to  you  !  Good- 
bye !  .  .  .  It  is  better  to  perish  than  to  see  what  you 
would  have  seen.  .  .  .  There  comes  a  moment  in  life 
when  the  best  thing  that  old  people — or  old  things — can 
do  is  to  take  themselves  off  quickly.  .  .  .  Good-bye,  dear 
old  casket  of  happy  days,  good-bye  V 

It  was  time,  then,  to  take  farewell  of  the  garden,  the 
fountain,  with  its  gay  little  song,  the  trees  for  which 
the  axe  was  waiting.  ...  On  the  Lake,  the  shadow  of 
a  sailing-boat,  close  in  to  the  bank,  glided  by;  the  water 
sparkled  in  the  hollows  of  the  bays;  .  .  .  rising  and 
falling  in  a  gentle  swell,  the  waves  seemed  to  sigh;  one 
could  almost  feel  the  heart  of  things  beating.  Suddenly 
a  shout  woke  him  from  his  reverie.  Bigarreau  was 
passing,  his  spade  on  his  shoulder. 

"  Ha,  ha  !  There's  the  gentleman  of  means  !  .  .  .  Have 
you  still  got  a  word  for  your  old  friends  ?  ..." 

For  a  moment  Potterat  was  divided  between  his 
desire  to  impress  the  man  with  the  spade,  and  his  emotion, 
but  his  honest  heart  had  the  mastery.  He  made  a  wide 
sweep  with  his  arms. 

"  The  old  garden.  .  .  .  I'm  saying  good-bye  to  it.  .  .  . 
It's  a  bit  hard  to  leave  it  all  to  go  and  twiddle  my  thumbs 
in  a  flat.  .  .  ." 

"  Oh,  my  word !  .  .  .  Wouldn't  I  leave  mine,  if  I 
only  had  the  chance  !  .  .  .  We  poor  beggars  have  to 
go  on  digging,  and  planting,  and  gathering,  and  selling. 
.  .  .  While  you'll  only  have  to  sit  down  and  eat  your 
meals  when  they  come  along.  ..." 


POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR  97 

"  Quite  true.  .  .  .  But  that's  the  very  worst  thing 
that  can  happen  to  a  man.  ..." 

Bigarreau  went  off,  not  understanding  Potterat 's 
feelings  in  the  least,  and  Potterat  betook  himself  home 
to  the  Avenue  des  Roses,  full  to  overflowing,  at  this 
hour,,  of  noisy  children,  skipping,  rolling  in  the  dust, 
squalling  at  the  top  of  their  voices. 

Ah,  that  first  night  in  that  mauve  room,  with  its  high 
panelled  walls  that  seemed  to  demand  mirrors  !  ...  in 
the  solid  walnut-wood  bed,  stranded  in  a  corner,  like  some 
little  fishing-boat  driven  in  by  stress  of  weather  to  a 
fashionable  landing-stage.  In  the  dawn,  instead  of  the 
familiar  sound  of  the  gentle  lapping  of  the  waves,  blending 
sweetly  with  the  silence,  the  shrill  whistle  of  the  milkman 
going  his  rounds,  the  call  of  some  hooter,  the  clack  of 
shutters  thrown  back  against  the  wall.  .  .  .  No  more 
did  the  sky  and  the  clouds  stretching  away  into  the 
blue  distance,  like  a  call  to  joy,  meet  one's  waking  eyes, 
but  other  windows,  other  balconies,  a  woman  in  her 
petticoat,  her  hair  on  her  shoulders.  .  .  . 

"  Did  you  think  you  were  somebody  else  this  morning 
when  you  woke  ?"  said  Potterat  to  his  little  son.  "  I 
slept  fairly  well,  but  when  I  woke  I  had  to  think  hard  for 
a  minute  or  two  before  I  remembered  where  I  was.  .  .  . 
What  a  change  !  .  .  ." 

From  the  little  white  kitchen  came  the  sound  of 
singing. 

"I  do  love  arranging  furniture  and  things,"  said 
Madame  Potterat,  in  a  half  apologetic  way,  "  and  every- 
thing here  is  new  .  .  .  and  pretty.  ...  I  think  we 
shall  be  very  happy  here.  ...  In  about  a  fortnight, 
when  I  have  got  the  place  straight,  you'll  see  how  nice 
it  will  be." 

So  Potterat  busied  himself  driving  in  nails,  setting 
up  the  beds,  putting  the  cupboards  and  other  heavy 
furniture  in  place,  hanging  pictures,  whilst  Mi-Fou,  who 

7 


98  POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR 

had  been  shut  up  in  an  empty  room  to  accustom  him 
to  his  new  home,  filled  the  air  with  prolonged  mewings. 

"  That  cat  is  getting  on  my  nerves,"  said  the  master  of 
the  house  suddenly.  "  But  I  can  understand  how  he  feels. 
If  I  could  mew,  I  should  probably  be  doing  the  same.  ..." 

"  Instead  of  talking  nonsense,  suppose  you  come  into 
town  with  me  ?  I've  still  some  little  things  to  get  for 
the  drawing:room,  a  small  table  for  photographs,  a  stand 
for  plants,  an  overmantel,  a  picture  or  two  .  .  .  something 
bright  and  interesting,  a  figure-scene,  perhaps.  ..." 

"  But  what  for  ?  .  .  .  Bigarreau  and  Cousin  Mary 
will  never  dare  to  put  a  foot  inside  that  drawing- 
room.  .  .  .  The  sofas  are  so  grand  now  that  nobody 
will  dare  to  sit  on  them.  ..." 

"  Oh,  we  shall  have  them  in  the  dining-room.  .  .  . 
But  there  will  be  new  acquaintances;.  ..." 

"  Who  ?  .  .  .  Diplomats  ?  .  .  .  Ambassadors  ?  .  .  . 
Consuls  ?  .  .  ." 

She  did  not  insist  on  the  point,  but  replied: 

"  Look,  I  have  fixed  up  a  nice  little  corner  for  you 
specially  that  will  remind  you,  of  old  times.  ...  I  have 
put  the  old  sofa  in  it,  and  the  portraits  opposite  as  they 
used  to  be.  ..." 

Potterat  laughed  to  hide  his  emotion;  then  seizing  the 
cat,  he  put  him  up  on  the  sofa,  saying: 

'  There  !  .  .  .  this  is  your  home  now.  ..." 

But  the  cat  sniffed  suspiciously  at  the  wall  behind 
him,  still  damp. 

"  There,  you  see,  you  can't  take  in  animals  with  talk. 
.  .  .  We  have  broken  up  our  old  home,  and  that  is  all 
there  is  about  it." 

Just  then,  Carlo's  voice  was  heard,  shouting  from  an 
open  window  to  some  of  his  school  friends: 

"  We  are  living  here  now.  It's  jolly,  you  know  !  It's 
a  new  house  !  .  .  ." 

Every  hour,  almost,  brought  home  to  Potterat  the 


POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR  99 

artificiality  of  his  new  life.  His  working  clothes,  for 
instance,  were  relegated  to  a  sort  of  housemaid's  cupboard 
under  the  stairs.  Involuntarily,  in  spite  of  the  broken-up 
meadow,  in  spite  of  the  torn-down  hedges,  the  '  gentle- 
man,' as  he  called  himself  in  bitter  mockery,  went  back 
again  and  again  to  the  old  garden.  From  thence  he 
brought  various  plants  and  flowers,  taking  care  to  leave 
round  the  roots  a  goodly  quantity  of  their  own  native 
earth,  and  planted  them  unobtrusively  in  the  few  yards 
of  ground  that  went  with  the  flat  in  a  corner  of  the 
courtyard,  in  the  vain  hope  that  he  might,  perhaps, 
acclimatize  at  the  foot  of  those  walls  a  little  bit  of  the 
old  garden  which  had  been  his  life.  Vain  hope  indeed  ! 
The  sun  itself  soon  showed  him  how  impossible  it  would 
be  to  grow  anything  there :  as  quickly  as  possible  it  sped 
across  that  little  corner  of  the  sky,  only  to  be  blocked  out 
by  a  tall  chimney. 

"  If  I  were  living  on  the  fifth  floor,"  said  Potterat  to 
himself,  "  I  don't  believe  I  should  feel  so  oppressed. 
But  to  live  night  and  day  under  four  other  families,  it 
makes  one  feel  as  if  one  were  in  prison.  .  .  .  Oh,  get 
to  work  !  Get  to  work  !  If  you  look  at  the  black  side 
of  things,  it's  all  up  with  you,  .  .  .  absolutely  !  Think 
of  something  real  .  .  .  practical !  .  .  .  Go  and  fix  up 
the  cellar  !" 

But  what  pleasure  can  there  be  in  arranging  bottles 
of  wine  in  a  cellar  which  smells  of  cement,  the  ceiling  of 
which  is  adorned  with  twisted,  snake-like  coils,  the  pipes 
of  the  central  heating  ?  Ah  !  how  different  from  the  cellar 
of  Eglantine  Cottage,  so  deep  and  cool,  where  the  cheerful, 
wholesome  smell  of  cheese,  and  vegetables,  and  apples 
lying  on  the  straw,  greeted  one's  nose  as  one  entered. 
How  can  one  help  feeling  miserable  when  one  thinks  of 
the  difference  ?  .  .  .  A  big  earthenware  pot  of  honey 
gathered  one  August  day  last  year  provoked  fresh  recol- 
lections.   Raising  the  lid,  Potterat  sniffed  the  perfume.  .  .  . 


ioo  POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR 

"  Ah,  I'm  afraid  it's  going  off !  .  .  .  This  honey  that 
I  have  seen  growing  in  the  flowers.  .  .  .  Transplanted, 
it  evaporates.  It  must  stay  in  the  place  where  it  was 
born  to  be  at  its  best.  There,  it  really  seemed  the  essence 
of  the  flowers  .  .  .  here,  it  seems  only  a  preserve  in  a 
pot." 

Mounting  again  to  the  flat,  after  talking  severely  to 
Carlo,  whom  he  found  sliding  down  the  rail  of  the 
staircase,  Potterat  asked  his  wife : 

"  Well,  have  you  finished  the  drawing-room  yet  ?" 

"  There  are  still  the  long  curtains  to  hang." 

"  The  long  curtains  ?  .  .  .  Have  you  two  kinds  then  ? 
.  .  .  There  seems  to  be  a  perfect  mania  for  complica- 
tion. .  .  ." 

Guessing  that  her  husband  was  still  fretting,  Madame 
Potterat  joined  him  at  four  o'clock  where  he  was  working 
in  the  tiny  garden,  closed  in  by  a  laurel  hedge.  On  the 
little  iron  table  in  the  summerhouse  she  put  a  teapot, 
cups  and  saucers,  and  some  little  cakes. 

"  Bravo  !  .  .  .  You  are  going  to  plant  as  much  as 
possible  from  the  old  place.  .  .  .  When  you  have  planted 
out  a  border,  and  placed  our  bench  under  that  old  pear- 
tree,  we  shall  begin  to  feel  quite  at  home.  .  ..." 

"  Quite  so !  .  .  .  I  have  counted,  and  there  are 
only  a  hundred  and  sixty  windows  which  look  out 
on  this  courtyard.  However,  here  on  the  right,  in  this 
corner,  there  is  a  comparatively  sheltered  spot." 

He  led  his  wife  along  the  wall  of  the  house,  under  the 
cemented  roof  formed  by  the  balconies. 

"  There  !  .  .  .  It's  only  the  old  man  who  lives  in 
the  garret  opposite  who  can  overlook  us  here  .  .  .  and 
fortunately,  he  hasn't  a  bad  face." 

"  Oh,  this  is  nice  !  .  .  .  You'll  see;  everything  will 
be  in  order  soon.  ..." 

"  That's  true.  .  .  .  Even  in  hell,  everything  can  be 
in  order." 


POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR  vjt 

One  evening,  as  Potterat  was  coming  back  from 
Eglantine  Cottage  with  a  basket  full  of  jonquils,  he  saw 
a  striped  ball  of  fur  gliding  along  close  to  the  wall  .  .  . 
it  was  Mi-Fou. 

"  Hallo  !  .  .  .    Where  are  you  off  to  ?" 

But  the  cat  did  not  hear  him;  with  frantic  leaps  and 
bounds  he  was  off  to  his  old  home. 

"  Well  done  !  There's  a  fine  character  for  you  !  .  .  . 
He's  got  the  old  Swiss  spirit !  .  .  .  Ah,  Mi-Fou,  but 
when  you  see  what  they  are  doing  at  the  old  place,  you 
will  come  back  quickly  enough  IV 

But  Potterat  was  mistaken.  Mi-Fou  never  came  back, 
and  they  never  saw  him  again,  although  they  searched 
far  and  wide.  His  master  said  mournfully  when  he 
realized  that  further  search  was  hopeless: 

"I've  never  seen  a  cat  I  liked  so  well.  .  .  .  He  really 
was  as  sensible,  almost,  as  a  human  being.  He  under- 
stood every  word  you  said.  .  .  .  Poor  fellow,  rather 
than  live  in  this  barrack,  he  has  thrown  himself  under 
a  tram,  I'm  sure.  .  .  .     Peace  to  his  ashes  !" 

"  David,  come  and  look !  .  .  .  but  don't  come  in  yet, 
because  of  the  parquet !  .  .  ." 

Potterat  came  and  stood  on  the  threshold.  Freshly 
covered  with  red  stuff,  a  sofa  stood  between  the  two  large 
windows,  which  were  draped  with  light  lace  curtains.  On 
the  opposite  wall  hung  three  engravings,  a  sunset  scene, 
a  flock  of  sheep,  and  a  storm  on  the  Lake ;  and  over  these, 
a  big  picture  representing  a  hind  with  curved  neck 
drinking  from  a  spring.  On  the  big  table  in  the  centre 
of  the  room  lay  some  albums  of  views,  spaced  out  sym- 
metrically, a  plant  in  a  pot,  brought  from  Eglantine 
Cottage.  On  the  floor  was  a  new  carpet  of  brilliant  hues, 
mostly  red  and  blue.  .  .  .  And  in  the  middle  of  all  this 
stood  Madame  Potterat,  her  hands  clasped  in  front  of 
her,  smiling  with  content  and  pride,  longing  for  some 
words  of  praise. 


102  POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR 

"  Well,  what  do  you  think  of  it  ?"  she  said. 

"  Where's  the  footman  ?  .  .  .  We  really  ought  to 
have  one  to  show  people  in  here.  ...  I  say,  must  I 
take  off  my  shoes  always,  before  I  walk  on  this  carpet  ? 
.  .  .  My  poor  Francoise  !  .  .  .  I  like  my  ease  too  much 
ever  to  want  to  come  into  this  room,  where  I  should  be 
always  saying  '  Beg  pardon  !'  '  Excuse  me  P  and  that  sort 
of  thing.  .  .  .  The  only  thing  that  I  really  like  about 
it  are  those  growing  plants,  and  the  palms.  For  the 
rest,  it's  all  very  nice,  but  it's  much  too  grand  for  me.  ..." 

"  Well,  after  all.  ...     It  is  for  Carlo.  .  .  ." 

In  the  look  that  accompanied  these  words,  Potterat 
read  such  a  depth  of  motherly  love  and  pride  that  he 
shrugged  his  shoulders  and  was  silent. 

"  Ho  !  We're  to  be  sacrificed  to  that  imp,  are  we  ?" 
he  muttered.  ...  "  Well,  you'll  see  .  .  .  the  more  we 
do  for  him,  the  more  he'll  despise  us  when  we  are  old  and 
helpless.  ..." 

But  in  spite  of  these  words,  the  thought  that  this  blue 
and  red  drawing-room  would  one  of  these  days  help  his 
son  to  climb  to  the  top  of  the  social  ladder,  filled  him 
with  an  inordinate  pride  that  he  could  not  altogether 
conceal. 

"  I  expect  Carlo  will  do  us  credit  one  of  these  days. 
We  shall  be  proud  of  him  yet.  ..." 

It  was  Sunday  afternoon.  .  .  .  The  clouds, "which  had 
been  lowering  all  day,  now  gathered  themselves  up  and 
burst  in  a  torrent  of  rain  which  filled  and  overflowed  the 
gutters.  The  outlook  from  the  flat,  on  a  courtyard 
surrounded  by  high  walls,  on  which  the  rain  made  grey 
streaks,  was  dismal  in  the  extreme.  The  iron  roof  of 
the  little  summerhouse  in  the  courtyard  shone  like  a 
helmet.  ...  A  cook  in  one  of  the  other  flats  was 
humming  a  love-song  over  her  work.  .  .  .  Sitting  on 
the  red  sofa  in  the  grand  drawing-room,  Potterat  felt 


POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR  103 

himself  lonely,  useless,  thrown  aside  as  it  were  by  life. 
.  .  .   ■  Out    of    the    fulness    of    the    heart,    the    mouth 
speaketh,'  it  is  said;  so  Potterat  spoke.  ...     He  spoke 
lengthily  and  freely,  as  much  to  himself  as  to  his  wife; 
bitter  and  sarcastic,  he  gave  vent  to  all  his  pent-up  feelings. 
"  Shut  up  in  this  box  of  a  place,"  he  said,  "  I  feel  just 
as  if  I  were  a  prisoner  tied  and  bound.     A  rabbit  may  get 
along  in  a  cage  perhaps,  and  even  then  he  has  room  to 
move  about,  and  he  gets  plenty  of  green  stuff  .  .  .  but 
a  cage  is  not  the  thing  for  a  man,  at  any  rate  for  a  man 
worth  the  name.     It  is  only  these  effeminate  creatures 
here  who  could  stand  it.     As  for  me,  this  sort  of  thing 
exasperates    me.     Any  fellow   boxed   up   in  a  tin   of 
families  like  this,  ends  by  getting  a  little  of  the  flavour 
of  all  of  them.  ...     At  Eglantine  Cottage,  I  was  David 
Potterat  .  .  .  but  here  !  .  .  .     It  isn't  every  beast  that 
can  live  in  a  menagerie;  there  are  some  who  simply  die 
of  it,  suddenly,  some  night  or  other.  .  .  .     Very  well 
then  !  .  .  .     And  besides,  I'm  quite  convinced  that  at 
night  people's  minds  and  spirits  leave  them,  go  out  and 
about,  and  when  people. are  crowded  together  like  this, 
a  man  may  very  likely  wake  up  next  morning  with  his 
neighbour's  fads  and  ideas  instead  of  his  own  .  .  .  nothing 
could  be  worse  for  a  man  of  character,  who  isn't  just  like 
everybody  else.  .  .  .     This  house  is  like  a  Noah's  ark;  I 
have  noticed  all  the  different  floors,  I  have  even  gone  up 
to  the  attics,  and  what  a  Babel !  .  .  .  what  a  flying  back- 
wards and  forwards  !  .  .  .     I  have  met  on  the  stairs 
some  pretty  women,  dressed  up  to  the  eyes,  powdered, 
clipped  in  with  their  tight  skirts,  so  that  they  could 
scarcely  move  their  legs,  and  their  minds  as  narrow  as 
their  skirts,  .  .  .  going   out   with  some   of    tnese  r^cn 
young    Brazilians  .  .  .  and    in    their    flat    e  verything 
pell-mell.     All  the  luxury  was  on  their  backs.    And  you 
have  only  to  look  to  guess  the  kind  of  people  they  are  .  .  . 
one  can't  help  putting  two  and  two  together.  ..." 


104  POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR 

"  But  how  do  you  get  to  know  all  this  ?" 

"  When  the  doors  on  to  the  staircase  are  open,  one 
sees  a  good  deal.  .  .  .  The  Tusehers,  for  instance,  and 
the  Blancs,  and  the  Gorgerats,  are  all  decent  respectable 
people;  they  have  children,  and  canaries,  and  things  are 
kept  clean  and  neat.  .  .  .  Then  there  are  those  two  old 
maids,  the  Paturauds,  with  their  sharp  noses,  their  fat 
lapdogs,  their  thin  shrill  voices,  their  servants  who  never 
stay  more  than  about  a  week  .  .  .  that's  a  regular 
wasp's  nest,  it's  easy  to  see.  .  .  .  Then  Kocheck's  flat 
is  very  exotic.  ...  At  the  music- master's  flat,  again, 
they  are  still  in  the  middle  of  their  honeymoon;  that 
won't  last  any  too  long  .  .  .  poor  things !  At  the  flat 
opposite  theirs,  on  the  other  hand,  there  will  soon  be 
a  divorce,  if  I'm  not  very  much  mistaken;  he  never  goes 
out  but  the  door  is  slammed  on  his  heels,  and  he  goes 
off  with  his  eyes  half  shut,  frowning  hard,  and  pulling  at 
his  cigar.  Which  of  them  is  to  blame  ?  .  .  .  Both, 
probably.  .  .  .  And  then  Zimmerli,  the  old  man  on  the 
top  floor,  who  plays  the  zither.  .  .  .  And  ourselves  .  .  . 
jumbled  up  with  maids,  rakes,  old  Hungarians,  '  bad 
lots,'  musicians,  German-Swiss,  the  good  and  simple, 
and  the  hard  and  grasping.  .  .  .  All  that  must  have  an 
influence,  in  the  long-run.  When  a  man  has  his  own 
house  to  himself,  he's  his  own  master,  but  here  there  is 
a  perpetual  whirl  and  rush,  and  one  has  perforce  to 
whirl  with  the  rest.  ..." 

Potterat  stopped  to  light  his  pipe.     Then  he  went  on 
again: 

*  Yes,  you  have  to  go  with  the  crowd,  if  you 
have  the  use  of  your  senses.  .  .  .  The  senses  are  like 
open  doors  by  which  we  communicate  with  the  world. 
For  instance,  the  ear  ...  it  hears  every  noise  .  .  . 
there  is  no  way  of  shutting  out  some  of  them  and  not 
others.  The  children  yelling  on  the  balconies,  the  mothers 
gossiping,  the  servants  singing  in  their  kitchens.  .  .  . 


POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR  105 

But  the  worst  of  all  is  on  hot  nights  .  .  .  the  sort  of 
nights  when  in  the  country  insects  and  emotions  come 
to  the  surface  .  .  .  but  here,  everything  goes  at  once, 
gramophones,  violins,  pianos,  the  zither  on  the  fifth 
floor.  .  .  .  Midnight  strikes,  and  then  the  habitues  of 
the  restaurant  begin  to  get  lively.  All  that  laughing  ! 
.  .  .  After  one  o'clock,  when  they  do  at  last  begin  to 
think  of  settling  down  for  the  night,  you  can  hear  one 
sneezing,  another  one  yawning,  the  striking  of  matches, 
the  pulling  of  plugs,  not  to  mention  the  babies  that 
wake  up  and  howl  at  intervals.  .  .  .  Then  take  the  eyes. 
You  open  your  window  in  the  morning,  and  you  see 
nothing  but  balconies,  balconies,  balconies,  windows, 
windows,  windows.  .  .  .  The  nose  brings  you  into  con- 
tact with  the  smells  and  the  cooking  of  other  people's 
houses.  .  .  .  The  sense  of  touch  forces  you  into  con- 
tact with  others  in  the  paint  of  the  corridors,  and  the 
balustrades  of  the  staircase,  which  everyone  mauls.  .  .  . 
Through  the  sense  of  smell  the  taste  is  affected  .  .  .  when 
you  smell  onions  on  the  first  floor,  and  hash  on  the  fourth, 
you  feel  as  if  you  were  eating  other  people's  dinners.  .  .  . 
What  do  I  want  to  prove  ?  .  .  .  Well,  just  this,  that  by 
living  in  a  heap,  as  it  were,  one's  five  senses  conspire  to 
rob  one  of  every  scrap  of  individual  character.  .  .  .  One 
is  like  a  leaf  in  a  salad  bowl:  it  tastes  of  the  whole 
contents  of  the  salad.  ..." 

"  But  look  here,  David.  .  .  ." 

"  Wait  a  moment,  I  haven't  finished  yet.  .  .  .  The 
result  is  that  I  don't  know  myself.  .  .  .  When  we  were 
at  Eglantine  Cottage  I  had  my  feet  on  the  ground  and 
my  head  in  the  sun.  .  .  .  And  such  trees  !  .  .  ,  and 
chickens !  .  .  .  and  tomatoes  !  .  .  .  and  my  tools.  .  .  . 
How  lovely  it  was  after  rain,  to  see  the  sun  shining 
in  great  slanting  rays,  for  all  the  world  like  the  ladder 
propped  up  against  the  big  cherry-tree,  only  that  the  foot 
of  the  ladder  was  in  the  Lake,  and  its  top  resting  on  the 


106  POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR 

clouds.  .  .  .  And  then,  too,  all  those  trains  passing,  .  .  . 
flying  all  over  Switzerland,  into  France,  into  Germany, 
into  Italy  .  .  .  and  to  watch  the  puffs  of  smoke  over 
Meillerie,  or  Saint  Prex,  as  one  turned  over  the  earth.  .  .  . 
How  we  used  to  wonder  about  the  travellers.  .  .  .  Ah, 
we  lived  then,  we  enjoyed  life,  ...  we  sang,  ...  we 
were. amongst  things,  our  own  things,  and  not  amongst 
people.  .  .  .     But  here  one  is  bored  to  death.  .  .  ." 

Madame  Potterat  had  listened  in  silence,  with  tightly 
closed  lips,  to  her  husband's  outburst,  greatly  distressed. 
At  last  she  spoke: 

"  I  was  afraid  that  you  were  still  feeling  the  change 
very  much.  .  .  .  But  I've  gone  through  all  that  sort  of 
thing  too,  David  dear.  .  .  .  When  we  first  went  to 
Eglantine  Cottage,  I  simply  can't  tell  you  how  I  hated 
it !  .  .  .  If  it  had  not  been  that  I  was  with  you  I  could 
never  have  stood  it.  .  .  .  But  when  people  are  together, 
a  family,  they  can  bear  things.  One  waits.  .  .  .  Habits 
are  formed.  They  bind  you.  And  one  fine  day  it 
seems  all  right.  ..." 

M  Well,  well,  it's  all  right  now.  Don't  worry  any  more 
about  me.  ...  I  must  have  a  growl  now  and  then  .  .  . 
and  this  weather  is  enough  to  depress  anyone.  ...  I 
feel  better  already." 

Here  they  were  interrupted  by  one  of  the  Paturauds, 
who  came  to  ask  a  little  favour.  With  a  great  deal 
of  unnecessary  circumlocution  she  asked  if  they  would 
exchange  their  day  for  the  use  of  the  general  laundry 
attached  to  the  flats.  And  she  talked,  and  talked; 
then  as  Carlo  came  in,  she  said: 

"  Is  this  your  boy  ?  .  .  .     The  only  one,  I  hope  !  .  .  ." 

"  I  have  two  other  sons,  by  my  first  wife,"  .  .  .  said 
Potterat,  with  extreme  politeness.  "  It  is  very  necessary 
to  keep  up  the  population  of  Switzerland,  you  see,  in 
these  days  when  we  are  so  invaded.  And  the  Vaudois 
people  particularly  should  not  be  discouraged  from  doing 


POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR  107 

their  duty  in  this  way  .  .  .  they  are  too  few  as  it  is. 
.  .  .  With  these  crowds  of  foreigners  always  passing 
through  .  .  .  nobody  knows  where  they  come  from,  or 
where  they  all  go  to,  .  .  .  it  is  very  necessary  to 
counteract  all  this  by  increasing  our  own  good  stock 
as  much  as  we  can.  .  .  .  Unfortunately,  it  isn't  every- 
one who  can.  ..." 

When  she  got  back  to  her  own  flat,  Mademoiselle 
Paturaud  said  to  her  sister:  "  They  are  very  obliging, 
those  Potterats — but  the  husband  is  a  little  coarse.  ..." 

At  the  same  moment,  Potterat  was  expressing  his 
opinion  of  her. 

'  That's  an  ex-schoolmistress.  ...  You  can  see  it 
at  once  by  her  nose  and  her  glasses." 

The  evenings  were  long  and  warm  now,  and  the  rosy 
sunset  reflections  lingered  long  over  the  Lake.  Every 
window  was  open,  and  the  street  noises  came  up  freely, 
gay  laughter,  the  hoot  of  motor-horns,  the  steady  tramp- 
ing of  passers-by,  all  bound  for  the  promenade  by  the 
Lake. 

"  Shall  we  go  out  for  a  little  walk,  David  ?" 

'■  Good  heavens,  no  !  What  should  we  go  out  for  ? 
To  see  the  people  ?  .  .  .  But  in  this  flat  we  see  other 
people  all  day  long  and  every  day  .  .  .  can't  get  away 
from  them.  .  .  .  Besides,  it's  nearly  nine  o'clock.  .  .  . 
Where's  Carlo  ?  .  .  ." 

"  Nine  o'clock !  .  .  .  He  ought  to  be  in  by  now. 
I  feel  quite  anxious." 

After  considerable  searching,  Potterat  found  his  young 
hopeful  playing  with  some  little  ragamuffins  on  a  piece 
of  waste  ground  near  by. 

"  Come  home  at  once,  you  naughty  boy  !  .  .  ." 

Arrived  at  the  flat,  he  questioned  him  sternly. 

"Now  tell  me  where  you've  been  and  what  you've 
been  doing  this  evening." 


108  POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR 

The  boy,  half  crying,  explained : 

"  I  was  playing  almost  the  whole  time  with  the  con- 
cierge's little  boy,  who  is  ill." 

"  That's  a  lie  !  .  .  .  They  put  him  to  bed  at  six 
o'clock.  .  .  .  I'll  teach  you  to  tell  lies,  you  young 
imp.  .  .  .  You  worry  your  mother  to  death.  .  .  . 
You  give  me  the  bother  of  hunting  for  you  all  over  the 
place  for  nearly  an  hour.  .  .  .  Now  I'm  going  to  give 
you  a  real  whipping,  as  they  used  to  whip  in  the  old 
days.  .  .  .  No,  not  in  your  clothes  ...  on  your  bare 
skin.  .  .  ." 

Howls.  Then  a  silence,  broken  only  by  the  boy's 
whimperings. 

"  To-morrow,  I  shall  find  out  the  truth  from  the 
concierge.  ...     Quick,  now,  into  bed !  .  .  ." 

Once  more,  the  husband  and  wife  looked  at  each  other. 

"  I  wonder  if  you  were  right  to  whip  him,  David  ?  .  .  . 
He  is  very  young,  and  he's  very  sensitive.  .  .  ." 

"  At  his  age,  it's  no  use  appealing  to  either  his  heart 
or  his  reason;  it  must  be  to  another  part  of  him.  .  .  . 
Whip  seldom,  I  agree  with  you  there,  but  whip  when  he 
really  deserves  it.     That's  the  best  way." 

"  Oh,  but  you  whip  him  too  hard." 

"  When  I  whip  him,  I  do  whip  him.  It's  no  use 
pretending  to." 

The  next  morning,  Potterat  went  down  to  the  base- 
ment, to  see  the  concierge.  The  door  opened  to  disclose 
a  room  dimly  lit  by  the  light  which  fell  through  a  grating 
in  the  pavement.  Sitting  in  a  low  chair,  huddled  up 
like  an  old  man,  was  a  child  with  a  face  of  wax,  amusing 
himself  by  trying  to  look  at  the  light  through  a  rosy  piece 
of  onion  skin.  With  his  red  cheeks,  his  big  hearty  voice, 
Potterat  might  well  have  been  an  inhabitant  of  another 
world.     Almost  at  once  the  child  began  to  cheer  up. 

"He  is  very  small  for  his  age,  poor  little  man,"  said 
his  mother.     "  And  he  has  had  almost  every  illness  that 


POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR  109 

there  is,  I  think.  ...  He  wants  more  air  and  sun.  .  .  . 
And  you  see  the  kind  of  flat  we  have.  .  .  .  There  is  the 
courtyard,  certainly,  but  the  sun  beats  down  on  the 
gravel  so.  .  .  ." 

"  Does  my  boy  come  and  play  with  him  sometimes  ?" 

"  Oh  no,  sir.  One  couldn't  expect  it.  Active,  strong 
children  like  him  don't  understand  these  others.  ..." 

"  I  tell  you  what,  Madame,  bring  your  little  boy  up 
to  the  little  garden  on  the  right  of  the  courtyard,  the 
one  where  the  old  pear-tree  is,  whenever  you  like.  .  .  . 
There  are  a  few  bushes  there,  and  some  flowers,  and  a 
little  shade,  and  it's  better  than  nothing.  ...  I  like 
this  little  boy  of  yours,  we're  going  to  be  great  friends, 
he  and  I,  but  we  must  get  a  little  colour  into  his 
cheeks.  ..." 

As  he  sat  at  dinner,  Potterat  told  them  about  his  visit. 

"  What  a  shame,  in  these  big  new  buildings,  to  make 
the  porters'  flats  right  down  almost  underground.  .  .  . 
Yes,  Carlo,  I've  seen  the  little  Robert,  whom  you  never 
went  to  see,  because  he  goes  on  crutches.  .  .  .  Pale 
isn't  the  word  for  it !  .  .  .  White  as  a  sheet,  and  thin  as 
a  lath  !  And  he  stammers  too.  ...  Of  course  he  can't 
go  to  school.  .  .  .  There  he  is,  living  in  a  sort  of  twilight 
all  the  morning,  and  in  the  dark  from  about  four  o'clock 
in  the  afternoon,  playing  with  a  broken  doll,  while  you 
are  fat  and  rosy-cheeked,  you  can  run  about,  and  frolic 
with  other  boys  in  the  street.  .  .  .  Well,  I'm  going 
to  bring  the  poor  little  fellow  up  every  day,  and  settle 
him  amongst  the  flowers  under  the  pear-tree." 

Madame  Potterat  was  almost  weeping  with  pity. 

"  Poor  little  fellow !  And  I  will  bring  him  down  some 
bread  and  a  cup  of  milk  at  four." 

Rather  ashamed  of  himself,  Carlo  bent  his  face  down 
over  his  plate. 

The  little  garden,  scarcely  bigger  than  a  room,  was 
a  Paradise  to  little  Robert.     He  would  stay  there  for 


no  POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR 

hours  together,  sitting  beside  the  flowers,  his  eyes  closed 
in  rapture,  his  hare-lipped  mouth  open  as  if  to  drink  in 
as  much  sun  as  possible.  Carlo  brought  his  aeroplanes, 
his  trains,  etc.,  to  show  him,  delighted  to  dazzle  this  feeble 
little  creature  so  ready  to  wonder  and  admire.  And 
Potterat  watered  his  shrubs  and  flowers,  and  pruned  the 
six  tomato  plants  which  formed  a  border  to  the  flower-bed. 
'  You  watch  and  see  what  beautiful  red  cheeks  they'll 
have,  these  tomatoes,  by  the  time  August  comes.  You 
must  hurry  up  and  get  your  cheeks  just  as  red  by  then." 

Now  and  then  when  they  were  alone,  he  asked  the 
little  boy : 

"  And  do  you  like  Monsieur  Potterat  ?" 

"  Oh  yes !"  the  boy  would  reply,  and  if  he  felt  sure 
that  no  one  was  in  sight,  the  big  man  would  lean  down 
and  kiss  the  little  face. 

Another  friend  of  Potterat's  was  Zimmerli  on  the 
top  floor,  an  old  bank  clerk.  He  amused  himself  in  the 
evenings  by  singing  and  accompanying  himself  on  the 
zither.  His  voice  was  somewhat  cracked,  but  still  had 
a  good  deal  of  charm.  Sometimes  his  white  head 
showed  itself  at  the  window  between  two  boxes  of 
geraniums.  Then  from  below  Potterat  would  call  up 
to  him: 

'  That's  a  pretty  air.    .    .    .      That  last  thing  you 
played.  .  .  .    Wasn't  it '  The  Cabin  Boy's  Farewell '  ?" 

"That's  it.  .  .  ." 

"  I  thought  so  .  .  .  I'm  a  bit  of  a  musician  myself  .  .  . 
I  play  the  cornet.  ..." 

"  Ah,  you  play  the  cornet  ?  .  .  ." 

"  Yes.  ...  I  must  begin  and  practise  again  one  of 
these  days.  ...  I  was  sent  this  morning  the  cornet 
part  of  a  Barcarolle  .  .  .  there  are  some  splendid  runs 
in  it.  .  .  ." 

One  evening  when  his  wife  was  out,  Potterat  took  up 
his  cornet  practice  again.     He  was  in  the  middle  of  one 


POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR  in 

of  the  famous  runs,  marking  the  time  with  his  heel,  when 
'  thump,  thump,  thump '  was  heard  from  below,  at 
measured  intervals  .  .  .  evidently  the  Demoiselles 
Paturaud  knocking  authoritatively  on  their  ceiling. 
Potterat  stopped  short.     Then  he  shouted : 

"  I  pay  my  rent  .  .  .  I'm  in  my  own  house.  .  .  . 
Do  I  pound  sugar  on  the  floor  every  time  you  strum  on 
your  piano  ?  .  .  .  What  in  thunder !  .  .  .  Everyone 
has  a  right  to  his  instrument.  ..." 

The  knocking  ceased.  As  a  sign  of  victory,  Potterat 
played  the  '  March  to  Copenhagen '  with  great  verve. 

Potterat  by  this  time  was  well  known  in  the  flats;  he 
had  a  pleasant  word  and  a  smile  for  everyone  he  met  on 
the  stairs  and  landings:  he  stroked  the  cats,  especially 
Madame  Hautefeuille's,  and  asked  to  be  put  down  for 
one  of  her  kittens. 

M  But,  Monsieur,"  Madame  remonstrated,  "he  is  a 
tom-cat  !" 

"  Really  !  .  .  .  Oh,  that's  a  pity  !  .  .  .  He  would 
have  had  some  beautiful  kittens  if  he  had  been  a  lady. 
.  .  .  Well,  it  can't  be  helped.  ..." 

But  his  lighthearted  gaiety  failed  him  at  times,  and 
regrets,  choosing  the  right  moment,  returned  to  the 
attack  in  force.  At  such  times  Potterat  would  take  a 
glass  down  to  the  cellar,  and  drink  to  make  himself 
forget.  He  drank  with  a  fierce  taciturnity,  his  hat 
tipped  over  one  ear,  a  bitter  smile  curling  his  lips,  and 
he  grumbled  to  himself  as  he  drank : 

"  Good  Heavens  !     What  a  life  !  .  .  ." 
•  You're  getting  fat,  Potterat,"   Bigarreau  told  him 
one  day. 

"  Ay,  a  man  will  begin  to  put  on  flesh  if  he's  bored  to 
death  half  the  time,  and  has  nothing  to  do  the  other 
half.  .  .  .  For  a  man  to  have  to  retire  when  he's  still 
perfectly  fit  and  well  is  the  worst  possible  thing  for  him. 
...  A  man  can't  read  the  paper  all  day  .  .  .  nor  analyse 


ii2  POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR 

the  world  and  its  folly  all  the  time  ...  he'd  end  by 
being  as  mad  as  the  rest.  .  .  .  What  can  a  man  do  ? 
.  .  .  I  get  up,  I  go  out,  I  come  in,  I  go  to  bed,  ...  I 
get  up  again,  go  out  again,  come  in  again,  and  go  to 
bed  again.  .  .  .  That's  all  I've  got  to  do.  It's  an 
impossible  life.  ..." 

"  But  you  have  your  little  bit  of  garden  here.  ..." 

"  Yes,  it's  a  fine  garden,  isn't  it  ?  .  .  .  If  all  the  looks 
that  it  gets  in  the  course  of  the  day  took  root,  there 
would  be  a  perfect  forest  of  eyes  in  a  night.  ...  It's  a 
wretched  place  !  .  .  ." 

"  And  what  about  Madame  Potterat  ?  .  .  .  Does  she 
like  this  sort  of  thing  ?  .  .  ." 

"  Rather !  Women  are  more  adaptable,  less  given 
to  reflection.  We  like  to  think  over  things  a  bit;  they 
are  content  to  skate  over  the  surface  of  them." 

Things  were  in  this  state  when  one  day  Sergeant 
Delessert  knocked  at  Potterat's  door.  Potterat's  voice 
was  heard  thundering  within. 

"  What's  going  on  here  ?  .  .  ."  demanded  the  police 
sergeant  as  soon  as  the  door  was  opened.  "Do  you 
want  me  to  take  somebody  to  the  station  for  you  ?" 

"  Oh,  it's  this  imp  of  a  boy  of  mine.  I'm  just  shutting 
him  up  in  the  boot-hole  for  a  bit.  .  .  .  He  thinks  he 
can  do  whatever  he  likes,  he  runs  off  goodness  knows 
where,  without  leave,  and  comes  home  at  all  hours.  .  .  . 
He  goes  about  with  a  gang  of  disreputable  young  ruffians 
who  are  fast  making  him  as  bad  as  themselves.  .  .  . 
And  he  has  the  impudence  to  cheek  me.  .  .  .  That  I 
can't  stand.  .  .  .  Oh  no,  this  barrack  of  a  place  isn't 
good  for  anybody,  boys,  or  men,  or  anyone.  .  .  .  And 
it  was  for  him  principally,  for  the  sake  of  his  future 
career,  that  we  came  to  live  here.  .  .  .  But  these  boys, 
they  have  neither  decency  nor  common  sense,  neither 
respect  for  their  elders,  nor  fear  of  the  authorities;  they 


POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR  113 

don't  care  for  anything  or  anyone.  ...  It's  positively 
heart-breaking.  .  .  .  And  I'm  becoming  a  regular  old 
grumbler  with  it  all,  as  sulky  as  a  bear  with  a  sore  head, 
suspicious,  irritable,  bored  and  boring.  ..."     jgj 

"  Oh,  you're  no  worse  than  the  rest  of  us.  .  .  .  We've 
all  got  our  worries  ...  in  the  police  as  elsewhere.  .  .  . 
In  fact,  I've  come  to  ask  your  advice  about  a  matter 
that  is  worrying  us  just  now.  .  .  .  The  fact  is,  that 
for  the  last  three  weeks  or  so,  someone  has  been  rob- 
bing the  alms-boxes  at  the  Cathedral.  We  have  set 
traps,  we  have  posted  extra  police  there,  we  have 
mounted  guard  almost  day  and  night,  talked  it  over 
at  the  police-station,  and  tried  everything  we  could 
think  of;  in  spite  of  it  all,  our  man  emptied  the  boxes 
again  only  last  Sunday,  immediately  after  the  service ! 
...  You  know  how  it  is  ...  a  great  many 
foreigners  go  to  see  the  Cathedral;  they  see  '  For  the 
Poor  '  written  up,  and  they  generally  drop  in  a  coin, 
by  way  of  a  sop  to  their  consciences,  I  dare  say.  .  .  . 
And  in  this  way  these  boxes  are  pretty  sure  to  have  some 
money  in  them  always.  .  .  .  Well,  as  long  as  this  robbery 
goes  on,  it's  a  humiliation  for  us,  you  know.  .  .  .  This 
morning  two  or  three  of  the  older  men  were  talking  toge- 
ther, and  Somebody  said: 

:  I  wish  Potterat  was  here  still.  I  never  knew  anyone 
like  him  for  getting  to  the  bottom  of  things.  .  .  .  He 
knows  every  trick  and  dodge  of  these  gentry,  and  a  few 
more  .  .  .'  so  there  it  is  .  .  .  they  want  to  know  if  you'll 
think  it  out  and  suggest  something.  ..." 

Potterat's  eyes  fairly  shone  with  delight.     Out  of  the 
window  flew  his  cares  and  his  depression. 

"  Ha  !    Do  they  really  mean  it  ?     You're  not  pulling 
my  leg,  are  you  ?  -,  .  .*' 

"  No,  no,  I  assure  you.  .  .  .     It's  all  right.  ..." 

Potterat  gave  one  of  his  huge  laughs,  like  those  of  the 
old  days — a  frank,  hearty,  infectious  laugh. 

8 


ii4  POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR 

"  Sit  down,  Delessert,  and  have  a  glass.  .  .  .  When 
they  call  over  the  roll  of  responsible  citizens  in  any  time 
of  danger  or  difficulty  I'm  ready.  .  .  .  When  society 
is  in  danger,  I  show  up.  .  .  .  And  it's  quite  true,  I 
used  to  do  some  good  work  in  the  police.  ...  I  had 
the  knack  of  it,  you  know.  .  .  .  You  want  to  be  able 
to  spot  things  with  half  an  eye,  as  it  were,  and  you  must 
have  a  quick  judgment,  and  be  able  to  sift  out  the  lies 
from  the  truth,  .  .  .  and  perseverance,  .  .  .  you  must 
be  like  a  sleuth  hound  on  their  tracks.  But  these  young 
men  they're  taking  into  the  police  force  nowadays  .  .  . 
young  dandies,  twirling  their  moustaches.  .  .  .  All  they 
care  about  is  flirting  with  the  servant  girls,  and  they 
think  themselves  invincible  because  they  take  courses 
in  boxing  and  jiu-jitsu.  .  .  .  What  good  are  they  in 
a  case  of  this  sort  ?  .  .  .  No,  when  real  difficulties  crop 
up,  it's  to  us  older  men,  with  our  old-fashioned  methods, 
that  they  look,  hey  !  .  .  .  Isn't  that  so  ?  .  .  .  Here's 
to  you,  Delessert.  ..." 

"  Here's  to  you,  Inspector." 


CHAPTER  V 

Filtering  through  a  green  curtain,  the  light  of  the 
setting  sun  fell  on  a  group  sitting  in  conclave  in  the 
police-station,  discussing  the  Cathedral  mystery.  Ser- 
geant Delessert,  and  Constables  Pache,  Bourreloup,  and 
Crausaz,  sat  with  folded  arms  listening,  while  Potterat 
expounded  his  plan  to  them. 

"  I  tell  you,  for  four  whole  days  I  have  haunted  that 
Cathedral  at  all  hours  of  the  day;  I've  nosed  round  about 
everywhere,  loitered  near  the  collection  boxes,  kept  an 
eye  on  them  from  the  organ-loft  .  .  .  and  everything 
was  all  right.  One  morning  I  really  thought  I  had 
found  the  thief  in  an  old  Englishwoman  who  was  drawing 
away  in  a  notebook,  and  all  the  while  backing  up  to  the 
box  near  the  north  door  .  .  .  she  was  so  thin  that  I 
could  almost  see  through  her  .  .  .  but  after  tracking 
her  down  carefully,  I  had  to  admit  that  I  was  on  the 
wrong  scent  .  .  .  she  didn't  take  the  least  notice  of  the 
box.  .  .  .  Well  then,  only  yesterday  evening,  I  put  a 
whole  collection  of  false  coins  that  I  happened  to  have 
by  me,  into  one  of  the  boxes,  and  this  morning  they 
were  all  gone  !  .  .  .  the  box  had  been  cleaned  out  as 
bare  as  the  palm  of  my  hand.  ...  So  now  I've  come 
to  this  conclusion — that  the  thief,  whoever  he  is,  hides 
himself  in  the  Cathedral  somewhere  just  about  closing 
time,  and  does  his  work  in  the  dark.  But  this  evening 
I'm  going  to  spend  the  night  with  him,  and  there'll  be 
two  of  us  to  share  the  money.  ..." 

"  Look  out  for  ghosts  ..."  said  Bourreloup. 

115 


n6  POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR 

Potterat  was  indignant  at  this  remark. 

"■  Ghosts  !"  he  said,  "  there  aren't  any  such  things, 
except  in  the  minds  of  silly  old  women.  .  .  .  People 
live  and  die,  and  are  put  away  .  .  .  and  that's  the  end 
of  them.  .  .  .  Who's  going  to  prowl  round  here  again, 
when  they  can  no  longer  eat  or  drink  ?  .  .  .  I  remember 
once  at  Vidy,  there  was  a  foreigner  who  complained  that 
his  house  was  haunted.  Well,  I  slept  there  five  nights, 
and  I  never  slept  better  in  my  life.  ...  At  the  begin- 
ning of  the  night,  certainly,  there  was  a  good  deal  of 
noise,  mice  scratching,  rats  chasing  each  other  behind 
the  walls,  the  old  wood  creaking,  plaster  falling  from  a 
ceiling,  an  insect  dying,  all  absolutely  natural,  com- 
monplace noises.  .  .  .  Oh  no,  it's  a  man's  own  unbalanced 
mind  that  plays  him  these  tricks  !  .  .  .  The  night  is  just 
the  same  as  the  daytime,  except  that  one  can't  see  so 
well.  And  I'm  not  a  boy,  you  know,  nor  a  Savoyard 
nurse.  ..." 

Bourreloup,  however,  was  not  to  be  shaken  in  his 
belief  in  ghosts. 

"  All  right !  Have  it  your  own  way.  ...  All  the 
same  I  don't  much  care  for  these  ancient  buildings  that 
nobody  knows  even  who  built.  ...  You'll  take  a 
weapon  of  some  sort,  won't  you  ?" 

"  Oh,  I've  got  my  revolver  always,  in  case  of  serious 
resistance  or  unexpected  attack.  .  .  .  Two  shots  in 
the  air,  by  way  of  warning,  and  four  in  earnest.  .  .  . 
Besides,  I've  got  felt  shoes  to  walk  about  in  the  building 
without  waking  the  echoes,  and  my  electric  lamp,  and 
some  bread,  sausage,  and  a  bottle  of  wine  ...  it's  a 
long  watch,  you  know,  and  one  needs  a  bite  or  two  about 
two  o'clock  in  the  morning." 

The  others  were  silent,  filled  with  admiration  for  his 
coolness. 

"  Well,  we  wish  you  good  luck." 

"  There's  no  such  thing  as  luck  in  these  affairs.  .  .  . 


POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR  117 

Everything  is  thought  out  and  arranged  beforehand; 
I've  chosen  the  corner  where  I  shall  keep  watch,  com- 
manding the  boxes.  ...  At  the  first  sound,  a  rush  of 
about  thirty  yards  or  so,  and  I'm  on  the  top  of  the  thief 
...  I  arrest  him,  and  bring  him  along  here  to  you,  and 
there  you  are.  .  .  .  We  old  hands  don't  chatter  as 
much  as  the  young  ones,  but  we  have  our  method.  .  .  . 
I'll  get  there  about  half  an  hour  before  closing  time, 
I'll  walk  about  with  the  crowd,  and  when  I  come  to  my 
corner  I  quietly  disappear  without  anyone  seeing  me.  .  .  . 
The  public  go  out,  and  the  place  is  locked  up  for  the 
night  .  .  .  and  there  we  are,  we  two.  .  .  .  Good-bye.  .  .  ." 
#  *  *  *  * 

From  the  lower  town  rose  the  sound  of  crowds,  of 
hurrying  to  and  fro,  of  life,  but  above,  where  the 
Cathedral  raised  its  towers  to  the  sky,  all  was  still. 
An  odd  sort  of  chill  seemed  to  be  in  the  air,  and  a 
weird,  unearthly  smell  came  to  Potterat's  nostrils,  as  he 
lay  crouched  behind  a  group  of  pillars.  Defiantly  he 
breathed  the  air  saturated  with  dead  prayers.  Glancing 
aside,  he  could  see  on  the  windows  the  light  of  a  distant 
street  lamp,  and  the  stars  dancing  as  in  deep  water. 
A  chequered  reflection  played  on  the  worn  flagstones  of 
the  floor,  and  streaked  the  walls  with  ladders  of  flicker- 
ing gleams.  ...  At  regular  intervals,  booming  from  its 
high  prison  of  stone,  the  great  bell  sounded  menacingly. 
.  .  .  Midnight  struck  .  .  .  the  street  lamp  was  extin- 
guished. The  steps  of  the  man  who  walks  about  at 
night  with  a  pole  on  his  shoulder  resounded  on  the 
pavement,  then  receded  in  the  distance.  .  .  .  Suddenly 
the  darkness  seemed  to  grow  thicker,  more  intense  .  .  . 
and  there  were  mysterious  whisperings,  glidings,  crackings, 
rustlings  of  wings.  .  .  . 

"  Well !  There's  no  doubt  that  one's  comfortable 
bed  at  home  would  be  better  than  this,"  said  Potterat 
to  himself?  as  he  sat  up  on  the  hard  chair  he  had  put  in 


n8  POTTERAT  AND  TkE  WAR 

his  corner  beforehand.  '*  What  is  that  ?  .  .  ."  A  huge 
hairy  spider  ran  across  his  hand.  Potterat  shook  it  off 
with  disgust. 

"Yah!  .  .  ."  he  whispered  to  himself.  "Why  in 
the  name  of  creation  did  the  good  God  want  to  make 
such  horrid  beasts  ?  .  .  .  Never  mind  !"  he  encouraged 
himself,  "  it  isn't  a  few  bats,  or  a  couple  of  rats  scuffling 
together,  that  are  going  to  break  my  nerve.  I'm  here 
in  a  good  cause.  I  have  law  and  justice  on  my  side; 
I'm  sent  here  officially,  and  neither  the  devil  nor  any  of 
his  works  is  going  to  get  the  better  of  me.  .  .  .  The  first 
thing  that  moves,  I'll  arrest  it,  and  run  it  in.  .  .  ." 

One  o'clock  struck,  then  two.  Before  striking,  the 
hammer  whirred,  a  murmur  ran  under  the  vaults,  and 
the  blow  on  the  bell  which  followed  struck  against  the 
columns,  and  resounded  through  the  building  like  the 
groaning  of  a  soul  in  pain. 

"  Good  Heavens,  what  a  row !  .  .  .  And  my  feet 
are  beginning  to  freeze.  ...  I  think  it's  about  time  to 
have  some  food.  ..." 

Potterat  drew  from  his  capacious  pockets  a  bottle  and 
a  packet,  which  he  unrolled  carefully  and  noiselessly. 
Methodically,  he  took  a  bite  of  sausage,  then  a  bite  of 
bread. 

"  Ha,  that's  better  !  Well,  it's  the  first  time  I've 
eaten  a  meal  under  these  conditions.  .  .  .  There's 
nothing  like  eating  to  put  one  in  good  heart.  ...  As  long 
as  one  can  eat,  everything  is  all  right.  ..." 

When  Potterat  uncorked  the  bottle,  in  spite  of  all  his 
precautions  there  was  a  loud  '  tiouc.'  .  .  .  Immediately 
the  vaults  re-echoed  repeatedly  '  Tiouc !  .  .  .  Tiouc  ! 
.  .  .  Tiouc !  .  .  .' 

'  There's  no  place  like  a  Cathedral  for  giving  you 
away  !"  said  Potterat  to  himself.     "  Here's  to  you  !  .  .  ." 

Thirsty  lips  encircled  the  neck  of  the  bottle;  slowly, 
surely,  it  was  emptied,  and  Potterat  said  again  to  himself : 


POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR  119 

"  Ah,  to  put  life  into  a  man,  there's  nothing  like  eating 
and  drinking;  as  long  as  a  man  can  do  that  he's  all  right. 
.  .  .  Now  then,  my  friend,  what's  the  use  of  sticking 
behind  this  pillar  all  night  ?  .  .  .  You  have  felt  shoes, 
now's  the  time  to  make  use  of  them.  Take  a  turn  round 
the  church,  and  climb  into  the  pulpit.  From  there 
you'll  be  able  to  see  all  round.  .  .  .  You  can  sit  in  the 
armchair,  and  you  have  the  whole  congregation  under 
your  eye.  .  .  .     Here  goes  !  .  .  ." 

But  when  Potterat  was  at  length  installed  in  the  high 
pulpit,  perched  up,  as  it  were,  between  heaven  and  earth, 
he  began  to  feel  himself  very  small  indeed,  in  spite  of 
his  great  bulk.  The  windows  opposite  him  shone  in 
the  darkness  with  a  ghostly  blue  light.  Some  inex- 
plicable sounds  sent  cold  shivers  over  him.  .  .  .  Fear  ? 
.  .  .  No,  not  that,  but  uneasiness,  an  uncomfortable 
sinking  of  the  heart,  that  was  all.  .  .  .  He  tried  to  rally 
himself  out  of  it,  but  his  sarcasms  fell  flat.  .  .  .  Hark  ! 
What  was  that  ?  .  .  .  Someone  whispering  ?  .  .  .  There 
is  no  doubt,  big  and  strong  though  one  may  be,  the 
voice  of  the  centuries  imprisoned,  as  it  were,  under 
these  resounding  vaults  has  some  effect  on  one's 
nerves  .  .  .  that  voice  which  is  heard  in  the  rustling 
of  the  branches  against  the  windows,  the  moaning  of 
the  wind,  the  very  silence,  that  terrifying  silence  of  all 
those  who  used  to  frequent  these  aisles,  and  are  now 
dead.  Most  of  all  is  this  silence  terrifying  to  a  man  like 
Potterat,  jovial,  gay,  a  bit  of  a  gourmand,  and  a  lover 
of  the  sunshine  and  gaiety  of  life.  For  perhaps  the  first 
time  in  his  life,  Potterat  laid  his  finger  on  the  tragedy 
of  things.  This  God,  of  Whom  one  talks  so  freely,  to 
Whom  one  devotes  an  hour  or  so  a  month,  in  Whose 
honour  one  sings  a  hymn  or  two,  and  murmurs  a  prayer 
into  one's  hat,  He  was  there,  actually  standing  there, 
terrible,  knowing  each  and  every  blackguardism  of  those 
who  lay  under  these  stones  in  impalpable  dust ;  here,  and 


120  POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR 

yet  everywhere,  leaning  over  those  who  slept,  reading  then- 
secret  thoughts,  noting  everything  in  His  book,  putting 
a  cross  here  and  there,  perhaps,  against  a  date,  meaning : 
1  Thou  wilt  die  on  such  a  day,  at  such  an  hour.'  .  .  . 

"I'm  no  worse  than  others,"  reasoned  Potterat  with 
himself.  "If  I'm  not  one  of  the  best  of  men,  I'm 
a  long  way  from  being  one  of  the  worst.  .  .  .  There 
are  extenuating  circumstances.  ...  I  have  quarrelled 
with  my  son-in-law,  certainly,  but  whose  fault  is 
that?  .  .  ." 

A  grey  light,  ineffably  sad,  tempered  the  thick  dark- 
ness in  the  Cathedral.  Four  o'clock.  .  .  .  Potterat's 
thoughts  took  another  turn. 

"  I  wonder  if  it's  so  very  difficult  to  preach  after  all ! 
.  .  .  One  gets  up,  and  stretches  out  one's  arms,  and  says: 
•  My  brethren  !  I  want  you  to  fix  your  thoughts  for  a 
little  while  on  the  words  which  '  .  .  .  and  so  on,  and  so 
on.  There  you  are !  .  >  .  With  a  little  practice,  I 
believe  I  could  preach  as  good  a  sermon  as  anyone.  .  .  . 
A  little  appeal  for  repentance  to  finish  up  with,  a 
prayer,  the  benediction.  .  .  .  Oh,  I  should  have  been 
as  good  a  parson  as  any  of  them.  ..." 

Little  by  little  da}'  dawned.  Very  soon  the  backs  of 
the  seats  could  be  seen,  then  the  stalls,  then  the  Com- 
munion Table.  In  front  of  Potterat  lay  the  big  pulpit 
Bible,  on  a  green  cloth.  He  opened  it  haphazard,  and 
read :  '  For  behold,  we  shall  not  all  die,  but  we  shall  all 
be  changed,  in  a  moment,  in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye,  at 
the  last  trump.  .  ,  .'  Closing  the  book  again  solemnly, 
Potterat  slowly  and  ceremoniously  came  down  the  pulpit 
stairs.    A  door  creaked. 

"  Well  ?"  said  the  concierge. 

"  My  word,  your  Cathedral  is  a  place  of  horrors  !     One 

gets  frightened  almost  of  one's  own  shadow.  ...     As 

for  rinding  a  thief  in  this  labyrinth,  it's  perfectly  hopeless. 

.  .  Did  I  hear  anything  ?   .  ,  .     Oh  yes,  I  heard  plenty, 


POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR  121 

but  I  saw  nothing,  although  I  kept  my  eyes  open,  I  can 
tell  you.  ..." 

They  went  together  to  the  largest  box  where  some  small 
change  had  been  placed  as  a  trap.  There  was  nothing 
there. 

"  Damnation  !  .  .  .  And  yet  I've  had  my  eyes  glued 
on  that  spot.  .  .  .  But  who  could  see  in  that  pitch 
blackness  ?  .  .  .  There  is  darkness  and  darkness.  Here, 
you  might  imagine  yourself  hundreds  of  feet  under  water. 
I  couldn't  see  my  hand  in  front  of  me.  .  .  .  Oh  well, 
I'm  coming  back  again  to-night.  Only  I'll  adopt  another 
plan,  and  to-morrow  morning  you'll  see  the  thief  as  large 
as  life.  .  .  .  But  don't  say  a  word  to  anyone.  .  .  . 
Now  I'm  going  home  to  breakfast." 

"  Well  ?  .  .  ."  said  also  the  police  sergeant  when 
Potterat  entered  the  police-station.  That  he  had  drawn 
a  blank  was  very  evident  by  his  drooping  moustache, 
and  the  dejected  stoop  of  his  shoulders. 

'  You  see  it's  not  so  easy  after  all,"  said  Bourreloup. 

"  What's  that  ?  .  .  .  Well,  one  can't  arrest  bats.  .  .  . 
Besides,  the  first  night  one  can  only  reconnoitre,  make 
a  few  notes,  and  settle  on  a  plan.  .  .  .  Lay  the  train, 
so  to  speak.     Then  the  next  night  we  blow  them  up." 

'  You're  going  there  again  ?  .  .  ."  said  Delessert. 

"  I  think  so.  .  .  .  The  police  need  plenty  of  patience. 
.  .  .  The  man  who  is  put  off  at  the  first  check  isn't 
much  of  a  detective.  I  shall  spend  my  nights  in  the 
Cathedral  to  the  end  of  my  days  if  necessary,  but  I  shall 
get  the  better  of  the  rascal.  .  .  .  On  the  other  hand,  it's 
no  use  trying  to  hide  the  fact  that  it  isn't  going  to  be  an 
easy  job.  ...  To  stay  all  night  alone  in  that  old  pile 
in  the  dark ;  to  wander  about  a  place  built  in  the  thirteenth 
century,  by  people  of  doubtful  morals,  a  place  with  all 
kinds  of  corners,  and  nooks,  and  crypts,  and  tombstones, 
and  old  statues  .  .  .  well,  there  are  not  many  men  who 
would  do  it,  I  can  tell  you.  .  .  ,     If  you  stay  in  one 


122  POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR 

place,  you  can  see  nothing,  if  you  walk  about,  you  seem 
to  set  the  whole  place  in  a  commotion.  .  .  .  No,  which- 
ever way  you  look  at  it,  it  isn't  an  easy  job.  .  .  ." 

"  Some  people  say  that  at  night,  when  the  wind  is  up, 
the  organ  plays  of  itself,  in  muffled  tones,  of  course.  .  .  . 
Is  that  true,  do  you  think  ?  .  .  ." 

"Certainly!  There  are  puffings,  and  blowings,  and 
creakings,  and  wheezy  notes,  over  and  over  again.  ..." 

M  It's  the  instrumentation  working,"  said  Delessert 
scientifically.  "  With  all  those  pipes,  the  least  breath 
of  air  makes  a  sound." 

Potterat  was  not  to  be  outdone. 

"  Naturally.  ...  It's  not  the  devil  playing  himself 
a  hymn.  Every  noise  has  a  sensible  explanation.  ... 
A  man  who  has  spent  thirty  years  in  the  police  has  a 
pretty  good  idea  of  what  a  variety  of  noises  there  are  at 
night.  .  .  .  Silly  people  talk  about  fairies,  and  spirits, 
and  ghosts,  but  the  man  who  has  his  wits  about  him 
looks  for  the  cause,  and  is  able  to  distinguish  and 
diagnose  the  noise  at  once." 

'  That's  all  very  well  ..."  said  Pache,  in  a  meaning 
voice. 

'  What's  all  very  well  ?  .  .  .  The  days  of  fairy 
stories  are  past.  We're  too  emancipated  for  that 
nowadays.     Well,  I'm  off  to  breakfast." 

"  Well  ?  .  .  ."  said  Madame  Potterat,  in  her  turn, 
looking  rather  pale. 

"  Well,  nothing  .  .  .  except  that  I'm  simply 
ravenous." 

"  Have  you  caught  him  ?  .  .  ." 

"  Caught  who  ?  .  .  .  Did  you  really  think  I  was  going 
to  get  him  at  the  first  attempt  ?  .  .  .  Oh  no,  he's*  too 
sharp  for  that.  It's  cunning  against  strategy.  .  .  .  Give 
me  time.  .  .  .  All  the  same,  I  don't  think  you'll  find 
three  men  in  Central  Europe  who'll  be  ready  to  pass  the 
night,  absolutely  alone,  in  a  Cathedral.     It  needs  plenty 


POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR  123 

of  pluck,  and  good  steady  nerves.  Why,  a  man  might  be 
set  upon  and  cut  to  pieces  by  some  madman,  and  no  one 
outside  would  know  anything  about  it  until  seven  o'clock 
in  the  morning." 

n  Oh,  David  dear !  .  .  .  What  I  suffered  last  night ! 
.  .  .  And  the  Lake  was  so  stormy  and  loud.  ...  I  had 
all  sorts  of  horrible  thoughts.  .  .  .  And  knowing  that 
you  were  in  cold,  and  danger  ...  do  you  think  I  could 
get  a  wink  of  sleep  ?  Not  likely  !  .  .  .  If  you  love  me, 
David,  you  must  not  think  of  going  again.  ...  I  have 
such  presentiments.  .  .  .  Just  now,  too,  I  felt  all  queer. 
...  As  soon  as  Carlo  had  gone  off  to  school,  I  had  a 
regular  fit  of  hysterics.  ...     I  couldn't  help  it,  David." 

"  My  dear,  women  are  always  like  that.  They  never 
look  at  things  as  men  do.  But  I'm  too  hungry  now  to 
discuss  the  point." 

And  he  sat  down  to  the  table  and  attacked  with  vigour 
the  coffee  and  cream,  the  bread  and  fresh  butter,  the 
strawberry  jam.  Presently,  his  hunger  allayed,  Potterat 
relented  at  the  sight  of  his  wife's  anxious  face. 

"  All  right,  dear,  all  right !  .  .  .  I'm  here  safe  and 
sound.  What  more  do  you  want  ?  .  .  .  'La  Suisse  est 
belle.'  .  .  .  And  we've  plenty  of  good  food  to  eat. 
So  what  are  you  crying  about  ?" 

Madame  Potterat  dried  her  eyes. 

"  Oh,  don't  talk,  David,  you  don't  understand  a  bit. 
Men  argue,  .  .  .  but  women  feel.  ..." 

"  And  don't  I  feel  too  ?  .  .  .  I  feel  that  this  jam  is 
delicious,  that  this  bread  is  new.  ..." 

As  he  spoke,  he  watched  her  from  the  corners  of  his 
eyes,  vaguely  touched  by  her  evident  anxiety  on  his 
behalf.     Someone  knocked  at  the  door.    It  was  Zimmerli. 

"  Has  he  come  back  yet  ?" 

"  Yes,  he's  at  breakfast  now." 

"Well?  ..." 

"  Oh,  come  in  for  a  minute,     He'll  tell  you  all  about  it." 


124  POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR 

"  Well  ?  .  .  ,"  repeated  Zimmerli,  the  moment  he  saw 
Potterat. 

"  Everybody  I've  seen  this  morning  says  '  Well  ?  .  .  . 
Well?  .  .  .'  Well,  what  about  it  ?  .  .  .  You  didn't 
expect,  did  you,  that  anything  was  going  to  happen  in 
one  night,  when  it's  a  question  of  dealing  with  expert 
thieves  ?  .  .  .     It  will  take  time,  courage,  shrewdness." 

"  What  was  it  like  in  the  Cathedral  at  night  ?" 

"  Well,  you'd  think  all  the  time  that  someone  was 
rolling  things  about  on  the  flagstones.  And  the  groans, 
and  creaks,  and  strainings.  ...  I  can't  get  it  out  of 
my  mind  that  in  spite  of  all  the  prayers  and  good  words 
that  are  said  there,  there's  no  place  where  there  are  more 
devils  than  in  these  churches.  ...  It  makes  one  think, 
you  know.  ..." 

"  And  you  really  intend  to  go  again  ?" 

"I'm  going  again,  certainly  !  .  .  .  You  can  think  of 
me  to-night  about  midnight,  .  .  .  you  in  your  bed, 
warm  and  snug  and  comfortable,  and  everything  quiet 
and  peaceful  all  round,  and  me  up  there,  in  the  middle 
of  all  sort  of  horrors.  ..." 

"  Oh,  David,  are  you  really  going  again  ?" 

Potterat,  with  a  steely  glance  first  at  his  wife,  then  at 
Zimmerli,  replied  firmly: 

"  I'm  going  again.  .  .  .     Duty  must  be  done.  .  .  .." 

Outside  the  night  was  stormy  and  dark.  Quivering 
flashes  of  lightning  played  amongst  the  piled  masses  of 
cloud,  making  them  take  all  sorts  of  shapes,  here  sharks 
with  open  jaws,  there  armed  ships  of  war.  .  .  .  Sud- 
denly the  moon  shone  out.  Through  a  blue  stained-glass 
window  it  shed  an  unreal  light.  Some  mysterious  hand 
up  above  the  earth  seemed  to  open  suddenly  the  sluice- 
gates of  Joy,  then  to  close  them  again.  .  .  .  Again  all 
was  black.  ...  A  quivering  flash  twisted  across  the 
sky  .  .  .  lit  up  a  window  in  which  a  fiery  dragon  pursues 


POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR  125 

a  cavalier  galloping  under  twinkling  stars  .  .  .  then 
again  darkness.  .  .  .  Crouching  behind  his  pillar,  Pot- 
terat  thought: 

"  How  in  the  wide  world  is  it  possible  to  hide  here  ? 
.  .  .  With  the  lightning  jumping  out  and  about  like  this, 
when  you  least  expect  it,  marking  out  your  face,  and 
taking  the  imprint  of  your,  skull.  A  pretty  sort  of  hiding 
place  it  is,  when  you  throw  shadows  fifty  yards  long,  right 
up  into  the  vaults  almost.  ...  You  might  as  well  expect 
a  Prussian  to  have  a  round  head,  as  to  think  of  surprising 
a  thief  here.  .  .  .  No,  there's  nothing  for  it  but  to  change 
one's  plan.  .  .  .  Since  Heaven  chooses  to  play  you 
tricks  like  these,  and  since  the  thunder  too  ranges  itself 
on  the  side  of  the  enemy,  and  makes  it  impossible  to  catch 
him,  what  you've  got  to  do  is  to  walk  up  and  down  this 
Cathedral  boldly  and  openly,  up  one  side  and  down 
the  other,  taking  a  turn  round  the  pillars,  going  down 
into  the  crypt,  and  up  into  the  galleries,  and  looking  into 
every  niche.  If  the  thief  doesn't  already  suspect  that 
there  is  someone  here,  he  is  a  greater  fool  than  I  give  him 
credit  for.  .  .  .  The  upshot  of  it  all  will  be  that,  feeling 
himself  discovered,  he  will  pack  up  his  traps  and  take 
himself  off.  .  .  .  To  arrest  someone  would  be  the  best 
thing,  certainly,  but  to  put  them  to  flight  is  also  good 
.  .  .  and,  as  far  as  the  public  is  concerned,  we  can  easily 
find  some  explanation  that  will  save  our  credit.  .  .  . 
Right !  .  .  .  Up  !  .  .  .  March  !  .  .  .  No  more  hiding, 
...  let  him  see  that  there  is  someone  on  guard,  and  that 
his  game  is  up. ' ' 

So  Potterat  began  his  beat,  his  hands  behind  his  back, 
whistling  a  lively  air,  which  the  vaults  took  up  and 
repeated  approvingly.  ...  A  door,  hidden  in  a  deep 
embrasure,  disclosed  a  staircase  descending  into  black 
depths.  .  .  .  Turning  on  his  electric  lamp,  Potterat 
resolutely  went  down  this,  until  a  gate  suddenly  barred 
his  passage,  through  the  bars  of  which  he  could  discern 


126  POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR 

dimly  a  sort  of  cellar,  at  a  still  lower  depth,  and  some 
strange  forms  outlined  by  the  flickering  light. 

"  Good  Lord  !  .  .  .  The  cemetery  of  the  old  monks. 
...  It  is  !  .  .  .  I  can  see  skulls,  and  grinning  rows  of 
teeth,  and  deep  eye-sockets,  skeletons  lying  on  the  stones, 
their  hands  crossed  on  their  breasts.  ...  How  many 
centuries  have  they  been  lying  there  ?  .  .  .  Never  in 
the  world  will  the  good  God  be  able  to  find  them  again, 
thrust  away  in  this  corner.  .  ,  .  Anyhow,  they're  sleep- 
ing peacefully  enough,  and  when  one  gets  to  that  stage, 
one  doesn't  care  very  much  what  happens,  I  should 
think.  .  .  .  Each  in  his  place,  each  in  his  row,  no 
more  evil  words  from  those  silent  lips.  They  covet 
neither  gold  nor  silver  any  more.  .  .  .  They  sleep,  and 
sleep,  and  sleep.  And  they  wait.  .  .  .  New  Year  and 
vintage  time  come  round  again  and  again,  and  still  they 
lie  there,  calm  and  peaceful.  .  .  .  And  we  others  who 
are  alive  are  hungry,  and  thirsty,  and  greedy,  and  quarrel- 
some. .  .  .    And  to  think  that  it  will  all  end  in  this  !  .  .  ." 

There  was  a  long  silence.  Leaning  his  elbows  on  the 
top  of  the  gate,  Potterat  moved  his  lamp  about  .  .  .  the 
shadows  seemed  to  move  .  .  .  some  spiders,  suddenly 
awakened,  ran  nimbly,  on  their  long  thin  legs,  along  their 
threads,  fixed  across  the  vault.  .  .  .  Heavens !  that 
skeleton  with  the  yellow  skull,  like  some  monstrous 
empty  shell,  had  it  moved  ?  .  .  .  had  it  spoken  ?  .  .  . 

"  Here  !  Let's  get  out  of  this  !"  said  Potterat  to  him- 
self. He  beat  a  hasty  retreat,  half  turning  as  he  went, 
to  make  sure  that  none  of  the  dead  men  were  following 
him,  to  place  their  long  bony  fingers  on  his  shoulder. 
.  .  .  He  walked  past  the  tombs  where  the  Bishops  lay 
full  length,  impassive,  cold,  their  marble  faces  turned  up 
to  the  ceiling,  showing  their  chipped  noses.  .  .  .  Would 
they  also  rise,  and  walk  at  the  head  of  the  procession  of 
skeletons,  .  .  .  accompanying  the  intruder,  step  by  step, 
gliding  along  the  walls,  noiselessly  as  shadows  ?  .  .  . 


POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR  127 

"  Hein  ?  .  .  ."  said  Potterat  again,  this  time  out 
loud.  And  immediately  the  whole  Cathedral  re-echoed 
from  every  side,  'Hein!  .  .  .  Hein!  .  .  .'  Distant 
rumblings  of  thunder  now  began  to  shake  the  windows, 
dying  away  in  subterraneous  growlings,  which  never 
ceased  and  seemed  to  rise  again  from  the  lowest 
depths.  Potterat  turned  on  his  beat  once  more,  holding 
his  lamp  out  at  arm's  length.  Who  was  that  creeping 
behind  him  on  tiptoe  ?  .  .  .  Mysterious  movements 
seemed  to  be  going  on  under  the  arcades,  over  the 
pointed  arches,  .  .  .  and  yet  how  deadly  still  it  was  !  .  .  . 
Then  a  sudden  puff  of  wind,  a  long-drawn  wail,  a  rattling 
of  the  windows,  and  a  whisper  seemed  to  descend  from 
the  vaults  and  pass  along  the  aisles,  a  cold,  grave-like 
breath  also.  .  .  .  Then,  as  if  the  metal  did  not  wish  to 
be  idle,  when  wood  and  glass  were  so  busy,  the  organ 
pipes  began  to  add  their  voice,  a  wail,  soft  and  long- 
drawn-out,  scarcely  more  than  a  sigh,  ending  suddenly 
in  a  raucous  noise  like  a  death-rattle.  The  hurly-burly 
of  life  prevents  one  from  noticing  these  lesser  noises  at 
ordinary  times,  but  when  the  world  is  asleep,  they  wake 
up.  .  .  .  The  storm  came  up  nearer;  lightning  played 
no  longer  in  fitful  gleams,  but  wrote  with  fingers  of  white 
fire  things  like  convulsed  vipers  on  the  walls.  Sheets 
of  sulphur-coloured  flame  fell  on  the  flagstones,  rolled 
round  the  columns,  or  leaped  up  to  the  high  galleries, 
where  the  gilded  organ  pipes  flashed  sudden  fire. 

Bent  almost  in  two,  his  hands  clenched,  Potterat,  his 
heart  beating  painfully,  was  gliding  gently  along  the 
choir-stalls,  when  two  eyes  suddenly  appeared  through  the 
darkness,  a  chair  was  moved,  the  scratching  of  nails  on 
the  back  of  a  bench  was  heard.  By  the  pale  greenish 
light  of  the  next  flash,  Potterat  saw  a  shadow  which 
moved,  a  man  standing  up  and  apparently  making  faces. 
...  His  blood  seemed  to  rush  through  his  veins  for  a 
moment.     Glued  to  the  spot,  his  heart  beating  a  tattoo, 


128  POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR 

his  throat  dry,  too  taken  aback  for  the  moment  even 
to  pull  out  his  revolver  from  its  inner  pocket,  he  shouted 
in  a  stentorian  voice : 

"  Halt,  or  I  fire  !  .  .  .  Halt !  .  .  .  I  arrest  you  ! 
.  .  .  Fire  !  .  .  ." 

The  thunder  seemed  to  obey  the  order ;  the  building 
rocked  to  its  base.  Terrified,  the  black  cat,  who  had 
been  in  the  habit  of  climbing  up  by  the  roof  of  a  shed, 
and  creeping  in  through  a  little  pane  left  open  in  a  window 
to  the  shelter  of  this  place  where  it  never  rained,  fled 
away  under  the  seats.  As  for  the  statue  of  the  Bishop, 
seen  standing  there  as  usual  in  the  recurring  flashes  of 
lightning,  he  went  on  blessing,  to  all  appearance,  the 
sculptured  personages  of  the  choir-stalls,  very  stiff- 
looking  knights,  holy  nuns  with  meekly  folded  hands, 
seraphim  with  folded  wings,  devils  with  horns,  with 
forks,  with  tongues  of  fire.  Some  of  them  had  thick 
lips  overhanging  their  beards,  those  of  others  were 
rounded  in  prayer. 

"  Charge !  .  .  ."  commanded  the  warlike  Potterat. 
"  Madman,  ghost,  thief,  or  devil,  take  him  prisoner.  ..." 

"  It's  all  very  well  to  say  '  Charge !'  "  said  Potterat, 
the  man  of  peace,  to  himself,  "  but  a  fatal  blow 
may  easily  be  given  .  .  .  and  when  a  man  is  down, 
he's  done  for  .  .  .  he's  talked  of  for  two  or  three  days, 
and  then.  .  .  .  And  you're  a  married  man,  with  a 
family.  .  .  .  And  your  poor  wife  has  had  presentiments 
about  you.  .  .  .     Don't  tempt  Fate.  ..." 

Then  out  loud  he  said,  in  a  stern  voice,  tempered, 
however,  with  a  certain  good-nature: 

"  Come  along  now  !  No  more  nonsense  !  .  .  .  We're 
here  in  force.  .  .  .  You  are  surrounded  !  .  .  .  I  arrest 
you!  .  .  ." 

The  steady  light  of  the  electric  lamp  was  turned  on 
the  enemy,  and  Potterat  saw  then  clearly  the  statue  of 
the  Bishop,  and  the  assembly  of  saints  and  devils.     Look- 


POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR  129 

ing  at  the  tails,  the  horns  and  the  wings,  he  felt  ill  at 
ease. 

"  Good  Heavens  !  .  .  .  I  wonder  who  in  the  world 
made  those  things  !  .  .  .  He  must  have  had  plenty  of 
time  to  waste.  ..." 

Then  suddenly,  furious  with  himself  for  his  emotion, 
and  regardless  for  the  moment  of  prudence,  he  began  to 
abuse  the  grinning  faces. 

"  H'm !  you  there  with  the  hook-nose,  I  wouldn't  go 
bail  for  you  for  five  cents  !  .  .  .  Putting  out  your  tongue 
like  that !  .  .  .  What  sort  of  manners  do  you  think 
you've  got  ?  .  .  .  Trying  to  frighten  decent  people  going 
about  their  business.  .  .  ." 

Then  almost  immediately,  abashed  by  all  the  eyes 
that  stared  at  him  so  severely,  Potterat  recovered  his 
self-possession  and  his  politeness. 

"  Oh,  beg  pardon  !  .  .  .  Excuse  me  !  .  .  .  I  made 
a  mistake.  ...  I  didn't  mean  anything  just  now.  .  .  • 
The  fact  is,  I'm  so  upset  with  all  these,  outlandish 
noises,  those  dead  people,  and  the  lightning,  and  the 
organ  playing,  and  these  ghosts,  and  devils,  and  angels, 
and  I  don't  know  what  all  .  .  .  that  I'm  not  quite 
myself,  and  that's  a  fact.  ..."  Then  to  himself  he 
added:  "  How  I'm  going  to  catch  anybody  under  these 
conditions  I  don't  know.  ...  I  wash  my  hands  of  the 
whole  thing.  ..." 

His  heart  still  thumping,  Potterat  flung  himself  on  a 
bench,  where  he  sat  motionless  for  a  time,  a  prey  to  his 
reflections. 

"If  Heaven  is  anything  like  this,  it  strikes  me 
it's  the  sort  of  place  a  man  would  rather  want  to  keep 
away  from.  ...  I'm  certain  no  one  will  ever  see  me 
again  in  this  phantom  ship.  ...  It's  a  funny  thing, 
now,  I'm  not  a  bit  afraid,  and  yet  I've  got  cramps  in  my 
stomach.  ...  1  don't  believe  in  ghosts,  and  yet  I 
have  the   strangest  sensation,  as  if   there    were  things 

9 


130  POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR 

floating  about  that  one  can't  see  ...  as  if  something 
tickled  me  on  the  back  of  the  neck,  laid  a  hand  between 
my  shoulder-blades,  poked  me  in  the  ribs.  .  .  .  No,  it's 
better  not  to  risk  annoying  .  .  .  annoying  .  .  .  well, 
anyhow,  it's  better  to  be  on  the  safe  side.  .  .  .  And 
what  an  old  fool  a  man  is  who  is  too  young  for  his  years  ! 
...  To  think  that  at  this  moment  the  whole  of  Europe 
is  asleep  in  its  bed,  .  .  .  the  whole  of  Christianity  flat 
on  its  back,  on  feathers,  or  on  a  plank,  or  under  a 
hedge,  or  in  a  cradle,  or  in  a  coffin  ...  all  sleeping. 
.  .  .  And  the  world,  the  universe,  the  stars,  the  Milky 
Way,  God  Himself,  the  shooting  stars  ?  .  .  .  Oh,  even 
if  a  man  has  a  clear  head,  and  good  circulation,  and  a 
first-rate  digestion,  he  can't  begin  to  understand  things." 

Shadows  danced  like  smoke  wreaths,  the  storm  died 
away  into  the  distance,  gathering  up  the  lightnings,  now 
only  a  faint  flicker  of  yellow  light.  Sitting  still,  with 
his  arms  folded,  Potterat  began  to  go  over  his  past  life. 
He  saw  his  first  wife,  Jenny;  he  saw  his  son  and  daughter, 
Ernest  and  Louise,  now  more  or  less  estranged  from 
him,  as  children  again;  he  remembered  his  mother,  above 
all,  with  a  surprising  intensity,  a  thin,  active,  severe 
peasant  woman  ...  his  father  also. he  recalled;  and 
then  Carlo  and  his  wife,  bringing  the  coffee-pot  .  .  . 
and  then  .  .  .  Overcome  by  an  irresistible  desire  for 
sleep,  Potterat 's  head  nodded,  his  body  relaxed.  .  .  . 
How  delicious  !  .  .  .  ; 

"Eh!  .  .  .  What?  .  .  .  Who's  there?  .  .  .  What's 
the  matter  ?  .  .  .     Where  the  devil  am  I  ?  .  .  ." 

Potterat  woke  up,  astonished  to  find  the  ceiling  so 
high.  Ten  times  the  echoes  repeated  "  Where  the  devil  ? 
.  .  ."  the  bishops  and  saints  all  round  listening. 

M  Good  gracious,  I  mustn't  speak.  They  repeat  every 
word  I  say." 

Just  here  a  tickling  assailed  his  nostrils,  and  he  gave 
a  loud  sneeze  like  the  report  of  a  gun.     The  sneeze  went 


POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR  131 

echoing  round  the  place  indefinitely.  It  seemed  as  if  the 
whole  Cathedral  had  a  cold.  .  .  .  Like  the  sullen  hum- 
ming of  a  beehive  after  sunset,  the  noise  persisted 
under  the  vaulted  roof.  To  reassure  himself,  the  author 
of  all  this  hubbub  held  his  watch  to  his  ear;  the  familiar 
tick-tick  assured  him  that  life  was  still  going  on. 

Presently  the  thick  veil  of  darkness  was  torn.  A  clear 
ray  of  light  came  through  the  windows  and  drove  away 
the  shadows  into  the  side-aisles,  and  behind  the  pillars. 
As  on  the  evening  before,  the  seats  reappeared,  decor- 
ously grouped  round  the  pulpit.  Suddenly,  a  ray  of 
sunlight  struck  full  on  the  great  East  window.  The 
austere  wall  took  fire,  as  it  were.  It  was  like  a 
springtime  bursting  into  blossom,  a  glittering  of  fairy 
diamonds.  Truly  it  seemed  almost  worth  while  to  have 
gone  through  those  terrors  of  the  night  to  share  in  this 
splendour.  Good  fairies  seemed  to  shelter  under  those 
flowers  with  glowing  petals,  and  dragons  fled  before  the 
aureoles. 

Potterat  rose  from  his  bench. 

"  What  on  earth  would  people  do  without  the  sun  ? 
.  .  .  Nothing  soothes  one's  mind,  and  cheers  one  up  like 
sunshine.  ...  As  for  that  thief,  he  has  found  his 
master.  ...  I  don't  think  he'll  come  back  again  in  a 
hurry  !  .  .  ." 

Potterat's  words  were  truer  than  he  thought.  About 
one  o'clock  in  the  morning,  when  the  storm  was  at  its 
height,  a  suspicious-looking  individual,  a  specialist  in 
false  keys,  had  emerged  from  the  shadows ;  had  noiselessly 
opened  the  little  north  door;  had  seen,  down  there  in 
front  of  the  Bishop's  statue,  a  man  gesticulating  wildly, 
and  calling  on  the  Bishop  to  surrender  at  once  on  pain 
of  instant  death.  He  had  retreated,  gliding  away  as 
noiselessly  as  he  had  come,  without  too  much  regret. 
'  The  game  wasn't  worth  the  candle,'  he  thought.  '  There 
are  only  a  few  false  coins  now  in  these  boxes  .  .  .  . ' 


132  POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR 

Open-mouthed  the  policemen  listened. 

"  I  can't  describe  to  you  what  it  was  like.  .  .  .  You'd 
never  believe  me.  .  .  .  You  were  very  nearly  rinding 
a  dead  body  in  that  Cathedral  this  morning." 

"  Whose  ?" 

"  Mine,  by  Jove  !  .  .  ." 

"  Did  he  go  for  you  ?" 

"  It  happened  under  the  organ  loft.  ...  It  was  dark 
enough  to  have  been  the  night  before  creation.  .  .  .  Then 
a  flash  of  lightning  ! . . .  I  saw  him  suddenly  right  in  front 
of  me,  a  huge  creature,  enormous  !  .  .  .  Naturally,  I 
took  my  courage  in  both  hands,  I  called  on  him  to  sur- 
render, and  I  made  a  jump  at  him  to  arrest  him.  .  .  . 
Black  darkness  again,  murky  as  the  conscience  of  a 
horse-dealer.  .  .  .  Then  I  barked  my  shin  on  a  bench, 
and  before  I  could  reach  him,  my  man  skips  behind  a 
pillar,  and  runs  for  his  life,  flying  through  the  Cathedral 
like  a  cat.  But  naturally  he  was  better  acquainted 
with  the  place  than  I  was,  seeing  he  had  been  there  so 
much  oftener.  ...  I  picked  myself  up,  and  was  after 
him  like  a  shot,  and  the  next  minute  I  was  up  against 
the  pulpit.  .  .  .     Smash  !  .  .  ." 

"  But  where  was  your  electric  lamp  ?  .  .  ."  put  in  a 
young  policeman. 

Potterat  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"  Oh,  you're  young  yet,  my  man.  When  you  come 
to  my  age,  you'll  know  that  it  isn't  possible  for  a  man 
to  mount  guard,  to  summon  a  man  to  surrender,  to 
charge  him,  to  fall  over  a  bench,  to  continue  the  chase, 
and  to  light  a  lamp,  even  an  electric  lamp,  all  in  a  minute. 
...  I  couldn't  hold  the  lamp  in  my  hand  all  night.  .  .  . 
When  one's  all  alone  and  in  the  dark  like  that,  a  man 
wants  to  have  the  full  use  of  his  hands  in  case  he  needs 
them,  and  you  see,  just  in  the  time  it  would  take  to  get 
the  lamp  out  of  my  pocket,  turn  it  right  side  out,  and 
press  the  button,  the  thief  would  have  had  time  to  get 


POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR  133 

away.  .  .  .  Then  there's  another  thing  to  think  of:  he 
is  armed,  perhaps  ;  very  well,  you  flash  your  lamp,  and 
expose  yourself  and  your  own  position,  and  he  lays  you 
out  stiff  on  a  bishop's  tomb  before  you  can  wink.  ..." 

"  That's  true,"  said  Delessert.  "  These  ruffians  haven't 
much  respect  for  human  life.  You  did  the  right  thing. 
But  hadn't  you  got  a  revolver  ?" 

Potterat  stared  at  him. 

"  H'm  !  .  .  .  How  can  you,  Delessert,  ask  such  a 
question  ?  .  .  .  I  should  like  to  know  what  you'd 
have  done  if  you  had  been  there  !  .  .  .  Do  you  really 
think  that  a  man  belonging  to  the  National  Church 
would  have  the  heart  to  fire  off  revolvers  in  the  Cathedral 
at  two  o'clock  in  the  morning,  in  the  place  where  he 
was  sworn  in  before  the  Grand  Council  ?  .  .  .  That's 
the  kind  of  thing  a  free-thinker  might  do,  perhaps.  ..." 

Conscience-stricken,  Delessert  reddened,  and  Potterat 
concluded : 

"  Never  mind,  I  have  done  my  duty  like  a  decent  man. 
And  after  all,  if  I  had  actually  taken  the  thief,  he  would 
have  had  to  be  fed  and  lodged  at  the  expense  of  the  State, 
that  is  to  say,  at  our  expense,  eh  ?  .  .  .  On  the  other 
hand,  I  have  put  him  to  flight.  By  the  rate  at  which  he 
ran,  he  ought  to  be  over  the  border  by  now.  .  .  .  And 
the  result  is  that  the  boxes  are  safe  for  the  future,  and 
it  has  cost  us  nothing." 

This  conclusion  of  the  matter  was  approved  by 
everyone,  and  they  discussed  the  events  of  the  night 
afresh. 

Potterat  had  to  tell  the  story  all  over  again  at  home, 
his  wife  clasping  her  hands  and  imploring  him : 

"  David  !  .  .  .  Promise  me  that  you  won't  do  any- 
thing of  this  sort  again  ?  .  .  .  You're  far  too  daring  ! 
.  .  .  One  against  three  !  .  .  ." 

Out  in  his  little  garden,  the  mignonette  was  coming 
up  rapidly,  the  roses  were  holding  out  their  blossoms  to 


134  POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR 

the  sun  ;  the  scented  verbena,  brought  from  Eglantine 
Cottage,  was  putting  forth  fresh  shoots.  In  the  middle 
of  this  modest  space  Potterat,  whistling  and  singing, 
was  planting  out  some  geraniums.  It  was  good  to  enjoy 
this  feeling  of  happiness  when  for  two  endless  nights 
one  had  been,  as  it  were,  face  to  face  with  infinity,  in 
company  with  the  silent  dead,  brushing  against  the 
unseen. 

'  Well,  it's  done  you  good  in  one  way,"  he  said  to 
himself,  "  those  two  nights  in  the  Cathedral.  You  under- 
stand better  now  how  to  take  things  in  this  world.  You 
must  pull  yourself  up,  and  drive  out  the  sulks,  and  get 
back  your  old  good  temper.  When  one  has  been  down 
into  Hades,  it's  well  to  be  in  the  sunshine  again,  even 
in  a  barrack.  ..." 

That  same  evening,  moved  by  some  inner  prompting 
of  spirit,  Potterat  took  the  opportunity  of  his  wife's 
absence  to  write  a  short  note  to  the  Schmids. 

"  .  .  .  We  can't  spend  the  rest  of  our  lives,"  he  wrote, 
"  sulking  with  each  other  for  a  slip  of  the  tongue.  We're 
none  of  us  perfect,  and  everyone's  apt  to  be  out  of  sorts 
and  irritable  at  times,  and  to  say  something  that  he's 
sorry  for  afterwards.  If  you  like  to  take  this  as  a  hint, 
you  may.  .  .  .  We  shall  expect  you  one  of  these  even- 
ings to  have  coffee  with  us.  Love  to  you  all.  Your 
father,  father-in-law,  and  grandfather, 

"  David  Potterat." 

He  went  out  and  posted  this  letter  himself,  and  when 
he  came  back  and  threw  himself  full  length  on  the  sofa 
in  the  drawing-room,  he  heaved  a  great  sigh  of  satis- 
faction. 

"  Well,  to-night,  anyhow,  I'll  sleep  in  my  bed.  My 
word  !  I'm  not  yet  ready  for  eternal  life  !  .  .  .  I'm 
too  fond  of  the  pots  and  pans,  and  of  my  mattress  !" 


CHAPTER  VI 

One  day  Potterat  said  to  his  wife : 

"  After  all,  we  may  as  well  laugh  while  we  can,  it's 
better  than  frowning  any  day.  .  .  .  And  to  condemn 
all  these  modern  inventions  leads  to  nothing  but  barren 
protests.  .  .  .  Suppose  we  go  to  the  Cinematograph  one 
of  these  days  ?  Would  you  care  to  ?  .  .  .  If  we  like  it, 
we'll  go  again;  if  not,  well,  at  any  rate,  we'll  know  what 
we  are  talking  about." 

Needless  to  say,  Madame  Potterat  was  delighted. 

"  Oh  yes,  let's  go,  certainly." 

So  that  very  evening  the  husband  and  wife  might 
have  been  seen  sitting  in  good  places  at  the  Eden-Apollo 
Theatre.  In  the  seats  round  about  them  a  world  in 
miniature  was  represented;  South  American  half-breeds, 
Englishmen,  working  men,  servants,  peasants,  gaily 
dressed  and  highly  perfumed  ladies,  respectable  citizens 
in  white  waistcoats.  Having  shone  for  some  minutes 
on  this  heterogeneous  assembly,  the  great  lamps  sus- 
pended from  the  ceiling  were  lowered,  leaving  only 
a  dim,  red  light.  .  .  .  Bob,  a  comical  dwarf,  leaped 
suddenly  into  the  drawing-room  on  the  stage;  he  hid 
himself  under  a  sofa,  and  pinched  the  calves  of  the 
ladies  sitting  on  it;  when  discovered,  he  is  rolled 
up  in  a  rug,  and  thrown  into  the  street  from  the 
window  of  the  fourth-floor  room  where  the  party  is 
assembled.  He  falls  on  the  head  of  a  policeman,  who 
passes  opportunely  at  the  moment,  disappears  down  a 
convenient  drain-pipe,  reappears  again  through  a  ven- 
tilator, and  vanishes  in  smoke  at  the  very  moment  when 

i35 


136  POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR 

the  excited  crowd  chasing  him  is  about  to  seize  him.  .  .  . 
Then  followed  the  story  of  a  beautiful  abandoned  wife, 
who  makes  a  tour  of  the  world  in  her  dressing-gown,  in 
search  of  her  faithless  spouse,  a  scoundrel  with  a  sinister 
forehead.  .  .  .  Then  some  music.  .  .  .  Then  a  hunting 
scene :  the  usual  pack  of  hounds  with  a  hundred  waving 
tails :  the  usual  forest  path,  zig-zagging  amongst  the 
birch -trees,  the  forest  clearing,  the  brilliant  moonlight, 
the  rendezvous  of  the  lovers,  their  kisses,  prolonged 
whilst  a  gun  is  noiselessly  pushed  out  from  between  the 
gently  parted  branches  of  a  neighbouring  tree.  .  .  . 
Bang  !  .  .  .  Bang  !  .  .  .  And  two  corpses  lie  side  by 
side  upon  the  turf.  A  terrified  hind  runs  across  the 
clearing.     The  piano  plays  sad,  soft  music.  .  .  . 

This  time  it  is  an  instructive  film:  '  In  the  Souvenchy 
Quarries ' ;  .  .  .  perspiring  workmen,  little  trolleys,  a 
blasting  operation,  a  casualty,  and  the  blessing  of  the 
dying  man  by  a  priest  who  happens  by  a  lucky  chance 
to  be  near  the  spot.  .  .  .  Slow  music  on  the  piano.  .  .  . 
Then  came  '  Lady  Sawlborne,  or  the  Criminal  for  Love. ' 
,  .  .  Lord  Raclaff  has  been  assassinated.  Fainting  and 
hysterics  of  his  wife  and  children,  to  whom  the  murder 
is  brusquely  announced.  The  detective  with  half-closed 
eyes  searches  for  a  clue.  .  .  .  And  he  arrests,  not  the 
negress,  denounced  in  an  anonymous  letter,  but  the  ele- 
gant and  refined  Lady  Sawlborne,  the  most  beautiful 
woman  in  the  County  of  Kent.  ...  In  the  last  act  a 
clean-shaven,  ascetic-looking  clergyman  gives  the  Com- 
munion to  her  who  is  about  to  pay  her  debt  to  society.  .  .  ; 
Chopin's  '  Funeral  March '  also  expires  on  the  piano. 

Greatly  affected,  the  crowd  dispersed  homewards 
through  the  narrow  streets,  talking  over  the  scenes,  each  of 
the  young  couples  endeavouring  to  reproduce  the  gestures 
and  romantic  attitudes  of  the  lovers  under  the  light  of 
the  moon. 
"  We  ought  to  have  come  here  long  ago,"  said  Potterat 


POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR  137 

to  his  wife.  "  Part  of  it  was  quite  educational,  and  the 
whole  oi  it  was  interesting.  It  is  a  revelation  of  the  age, 
that  it  is  !  .  .  .  Now  I  begin  to  understand  better  the 
folly  of  the  world.  .  .  .  These  people  who  jump  from 
the  chimneys  on  to  the  pavement,  these  emperors  who 
marry  servant-maids,  that  dismal  depressing  music  the 
piano  plays,  those  burglars,  and  people  who  are  killed, 
and  who  recover  miraculously,  all  for  a  mere  nothing, 
those  men  and  beautiful  women  who  embrace  each  other 
in  public  as  often  as  they  like,  ...  all  these  things  re- 
peated every  evening,  to  the  accompaniment  of  music, 
must  excite  young  people,  must  mould  their  minds,  turn 
upside  down  everything  they  have  been  taught  at  home 
or  at  school,  and  set  them  dreaming.  .  .  .  Yes.  Look  at 
our  barrack,  for  instance,  all  its  different  floors,  all  the 
different  types  of  people  who  go  up  and  down  those 
stairs,  who  squawk,  and  strum  on  the  piano,  who  receive 
and  entertain  very  shady  company,  those  young  women 
without  a  sou,  who  paint  and  powder  themselves,  and 
read  trashy  novels  all  day;  who  nibble  a  leaf  or  two  of 
salad  for  dinner,  instead  of  eating  a  good  square  meal; 
and  ourselves,  too,  with  our  grand  drawing-room,  our 
boy  and  his  aeroplanes,  we're  all,  you  know,  just  like 
the  scenes  in  a  cinematograph.  .  .  .  We  go  in  and  out, 
we  dance,  we  stamp  on  the  floors,  we  quarrel,  and  make 
it  up  again,  just  like  the  birds  in  the  trees.  .  .  .  Yes, 
I'm  glad  to  have  seen  all  that.  ...  I  understand  things 
better  now.  .  .  .  Before,  we  simply  lived  .  .  .  now* 
we're  all  puppets  acting  in  a  cinematograph  show.  ..." 
In  this  way,  Potterat  discovered  the  world  of  to-day. 
From  this  time  onwards,  he  was  to  be  seen  at  football 
matches,  at  hydroplane  and  aeroplane  displays,  at  motor 
races  round  the  Lake,  at  trial  runs  of  motor-boats  on 
the  Lake,  bounding  over  the  water  like  fleas.  He  went 
to  all  these  shows  somewhat  for  Carlo's  pleasure,  but  more 
to  satisfy  his  own  ever-growing  taste  for  novelty,  for  the 


138  POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR 

surprising,  for  speed,  and  always  at  the  bottom  of  his  mind 
lay  the  unexpressed  thought  that  some  day  or  other  there 
would  be  an  accident,  which  would  justify  him  in  saying  "  I 
told  you  so !"  And  he  would  add,  with  an  indulgent  laugh : 

"  Man  has  long  since  spoilt  the  earth.  He  is  now 
trying  to  spoil  the  water  and  the  air.  He  pesters  the 
animals,  and  the  fishes,  and  the  birds.  .  .  .  The  time  is 
coming  when  one  will  be  able  to  go  out  of  one's  house 
at  a  quarter  past  eight  in  the  morning,  and  come  back 
at  twenty  past  twelve,  having  flown  right  round  the 
world.  .  .  .  Our  girls  and  boys  will  take  their  Sunday 
afternoon  stroll  in  Central  Africa.  .  .  .  Some  people 
think  that  the  world  is  going  to  end  either  by  being 
frozen  or  by  being  burnt  up,  *but  my  own  opinion  is 
that  at  a  certain  moment  we'll  all  whirl  off  into  space. 
.  .  .  My  word !  .  .  .  At  the  pace  we're  getting  to 
nowadays,  with  all  this  rush,  this  speed,  this  emotional 
excitation  by  cinematographs  and  what  not,  this  con- 
tinual strumming  of  pianos,  the  day  will  come  when  we 
shall  turn  and  rend  each  other,  when  we  shall  all,  men, 
women,  and  children,  go  mad  suddenly,  and  return  to  the 
period  of  hyenas,  monkeys,  wild  cats.  ...  It  will  be  the 
judgment  on  extravagance." 

To  these  doleful  prophecies,  Zimmerli,  the  old  lute- 
player,  would  reply  placidly : 

"  Oh,  don't  excite  yourself  so  much  about  these  people. 
.  .  .  They  don't  worry  themselves  about  us.  ;We  are 
old.     It's  their  turn  now." 

Not  far  from  the  little  garden,  on  a  piece  of  waste 
ground  which  could  be  seen  through  the  laurel  branches, 
some  urchins  were  playing  football,  every  now  and  then 
clustering  in  groups  like  wasps  on  ripe  fruit.  Watching 
them,  Potterat  was  inspired  afresh. 

"  There's  a  good  illustration  of  modern  life  for  you  !  .  .  . 
When  I  was  a  boy,  we  played  hide-and-seek  for  an  hour  or 
two  on  Sunday  afternoons;  the  rest  of  the  week,  it  was 


POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR  139 

school  and  work.  As  soon  as  school  was  over,  we  went  off 
with  a  shovel  and  barrow  along  the  roads,  following  the 
horses.  .  .  .  When  I  tell  this  to  Carlo,  he  can  scarcely 
believe  it.  .  .  .  He  belongs  to  a  football  club,  to  an 
Athletic  Sports  Society,  and  he's  a  Boy  Scout,  and  I 
don't  know  what  all.  ..." 

Zimmerli  replied  very  sensibly: 

"  Well,  you  can't  send  boys  to  gather  manure  on  the 
roads  now,  following  up  motor-cars.  .  .  .  And  you  can't 
keep  children  quiet  at  that  age;  they  must  have  exer- 
cise. .  .  ." 

"  Oh,  certainly.  ...  I  agree  with  you.  ...  All  I  mean 
is  that  we,  when  we  were  boys,  thought  of  how  we  could 
help  our  parents,  but  nowadays  the  young  ones  seem  only 
to  think  how  much  they  can  get  out  of  us.  .  .  .  Except 
Robert  here,"  and  Potterat  patted  the  little  lame  boy  on 
the  cheek.  "He  is  thoughtful;  he  enjoys  the  flowers. 
You'll  see  that  in  ten  years  from  now,  he'll  be  better  off 
than  all  the  rest.  .  .  .  They're  spending  all  the  time 
...  he  saves  what  he  gets." 

J3y  way  of  a  house-warming,  Madame  Potterat  decided 
to  give  a  tea-party,  and  in  doing  so,  to  establish  herself 
on  a  higher  rung  of  the  social  ladder.  So  one  beautiful 
afternoon  in  June,  Madame  Blanc,  wife  of  the  head  of  a 
department  at  the  '  Paradis  des  Dames ' ;  Madame 
Thevenaz,  wife  of  a  clerk  in  the  Railway  Secretary's 
office;  and  Madame  Regamey,  a  contractor's  widow, 
entered  the  sacred  precincts.  While  they  drank  tea, 
and  ate  little  cakes,  these  good  ladies  discussed  the 
eternal  servant  question,  and  each  related  her  diffi- 
culties. A  little  ashamed,  Madame  Potterat  explained 
that  she  only  had  a  woman  to  come  in  every  morning 
for  the  rough  work.  The  others  congratulated  her  on 
being  able  to  do  without  '  those  wretched  servant  girls, 
who  spend  their  time  looking  out  of  window,  and  flirting 


140  POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR 

with  the  butcher's  boy.'  Then  they  demolished  the 
characters  of  the  two  sisters  Bien venue,  .  .  .  '  highly  dis- 
reputable persons !'  .  .  .  who  had  made  a  moonlight 
flitting  the  previous  night  without  paying  their  rent.  .  .  . 

"  I  saw  their  flat  this  morning,  for  the  owner,  you  know, 
is  a  friend  of  ours,"  said  Madame  Thevenaz,  "  and  you 
never  saw  such  a  pigsty  !  ...  It  was  simply  disgusting.  .  .  . 
Vegetables  decaying  in  the  sink,  wisps  of  hair  all  over  the 
floors  in  the  bedrooms,  and  scent-sachets,  and  dirty 
powder-puffs.  .  .  .    Oh,  positively,  a  pigsty.  ..." 

"I'm  told  that  Verret,  the  tobacconist,  has  something 
to  do  with  this  hasty  departure.  ...  It  was  rather  awk- 
ward for  him  to  carry  on  two  establishments  so  near  to- 
gether. ...  His  wife  told  him  what  she  thought  of  him  this 
morning.  .  .  .    They  had  a  terrible  scene,  I  believe.  ..." 

"  Dear  me,  how  dreadfully  sad,"  said  Madame  Potterat. 

"  Oh,  Madame  !  .  .  .  It  doesn't  do  to  have  too  many 
illusions.  .  .  .  Happy  homes  are  none  too  common.  Look 
at  the  Berrioz,  for  instance,  divorcing  each  other.  .  .  . 
And  they  say  that  all  is  not  as  it  should  be  with  the 
Ravards.  .  .  .  She,  with  her  tastes,  you  know,  ought  never 
to  have  married  a  poor  clerk.  ..." 

"  Have  they  any  children  ?" 

"  No,  fortunately.  .  .  .  Really,  at  the  rate  one  has  to 
live  nowadays,  it's  no  joke  thinking  about  settling  one's 
daughters  by-and-by.  I'm  beginning  to  worry  about  it 
already.  .  .  .     With  sons,  it's  much  easier.  .  .  /' 

Some  of  these  mothers  looked  at  each  other  in  dis- 
may, and  quickly  changed  the  conversation. 

"  Have  you  been  to  the  '  Grand  bazaar  Mondial '  yet  ? 
.  .  .  It's  really  lovely.  .  .  .  You  can  buy  everything  there 
almost.  .  .  .  And  there  is  a  band.  .  .  .  You  can  have  tea, 
and  listen  to  the  music.  .  .  .  And  you  always  meet  people 
you  know.  .  .  .  It's  quite  charming.  ...  I  always  go 
there  two  or  three  times  a  week." 

Carried  away  by  the  descriptions  given  by  these  ladies, 


POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR  141 

Madame  Potterat  followed  the  stream  of  pleasure-seekers, 
and  went  to  see  for  herself.  And  her  account  of  what 
she  saw  sounded  so  attractive  that  Potterat,  in  his  new 
mood  of  worldliness,  offered  to  accompany  her  next  time. 

They  all  went.  The  moment  they  entered  the  swing 
doors,  Carlo  stopped  short  before  two  Japanese,  who, 
with  lightning  rapidity,  and  with  the  most  fascinatingly 
deft  and  sure  touches  of  their  tiny  brushes,  were  painting 
storks  and  chrysanthemums  on  little  paper  fans. 

"  Isn't  it  wonderful  ?"  said  Madame  Potterat. 

"  Oh  !  .  .  .  they  have  learnt  how  to  do  it !"  said  Carlo, 
whom  nothing  surprised. 

"  The  Japanese  are  like  that ..."  said  Potterat.  "  We 
in  Europe  have  the  original  ideas,  and  they  turn  our  ideas 
to  practical  account." 

To  the  dreamy  strains  of  dance-music  from  a  band 
hidden  behind  some  Japanese  screens,  they  drank  tea,  and 
ate  cakes.  Half  hypnotized  by  the  smiles  of  a  neigh- 
bouring fair  one,  scarcely  scandalized,  even,  by  the  very 
low-necked  gowns  of  some  of  the  fair  frequenters  of  the 
place,  and  more  than  a  little  proud  of  being  able  to  hob- 
nob with  the  fashionable  world,  Potterat  held  in  the  air, 
suspended  on  the  point  of  his  fork,  a  piece  of  cake  that 
would  have  made  anyone  but  him  shudder.  And  he 
whispered  to  his  wife : 

"  Just  look  at  Carlo  !  .  .  .  how  much  at  ease  he  is  in  the 
middle  of  all  this.  .  .  .  By-and-by,  when  he  takes  his  place 
in  the  world,  he  will  be  able  to  bow  and  scrape  with  the 
best  of  them,  like  that  little  shopman  there,  who  bows 
to  his  customers  at  the  rate  of  one  a  second.  .  .  .  That 
must  need  some  suppleness  of  the  backbone.  .  .  .  But  if 
one  goes  in  for  that  sort  of  thing,  it's  as  well  to  do  it 
properly.  .  .  .'* 

On  their  way  home,  they  went  somewhat  out  of  their 
way  to  climb  the  little  hill  of  Montriond,  whence  they  could 
see  the  new  quarter  of  the  town,  several  hotels,  twenty- 


142  POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR 

three  pensions,  the  Vaudois  plain,  the  Jura,  the  Alps, 
and,  uniting  them  all,  the  blue  crescent  of  Leman. 

"  Do  you  see  our  barrack,  Carlo  ?  .  .  ." 

■-'  How  funny  !  You  can  see  right  into  the  houses.  .  .  . 
I  see  a  cook  grinding  coffee  .  .  .  and  another  washing  a 
saucepan.  .  .  .  And  how  flat  the  road  and  the  carriages 
on  it  look  !  .  .  .  the  people  are  just  like  ants  swarming 
about !  .  .  ." 

Potterat  seized  the  opportunity  to  impress  upon  his 
son  some  sense  of  the  relativity  of  human  things. 

"  Ha  !  Like  ants,  that's  a  very  good  description.  .  .  . 
And  those  people  that  you  see  there  walking  about,  that 
girl  in  red,  that  man  in  a  tall  hat,  that  one  riding,  and 
all  the  rest,  every  one  of  them  thinks  himself  or  herself 
the  most  important  person  in  the  world.  .  .  .  And  yet,  if 
the  whole  lot  of  them  were  to  die  suddenly,  this  evening 
at  five  o'clock,  the  sun  would  set  just  the  same  as  ever  in 
the  same  place.  ..." 

/  There's  the  gong  of  the  Institute,"  interrupted 
Madame  Potterat. 

"  No,  excuse  me.  That's  the  gong  at  Troblet's.  .  .  . 
There  are  fifty-eight  pupils  there.  .  .  .  There,  you  see  !  .  .  . 
The  recreation  is  just  finished.  Look  at  those  Egyptians 
coming  out  from  the  bushes.  .  .  .  There  is  the  head- 
master himself  in  the  doorway  .  .*. .  he's  watching  to 
see  that  they  all  come  in.  .  .  .  See  the  boys  running, 
big  and  little  .  .  .  there,  they're  all  in  !  .  .  .  I  wonder  if 
they're  going  to  have  any  more  classes  ?  .  .  .  Yes,  there 
you  can  see  through  that  open  window  a  row  of  heads  and 
the  master  giving  the  lesson.  .  .  .  The  headmaster  goes  off 
now  that  they  are  all  indoors.  ..." 

14  How  the  town  is  growing  !  .  .  ."  said  Madame  Potterat 
again.  ■■•  Don't  you  remember,  David,  when  we  were 
young,  the  little  paths  along  the  lakeside  ?  How  pretty 
it  was  there  !  .  .  .  Now  it  is  very  grand  and  handsome, 
with  those  fine  hotels,  and  villas,  and  new  houses  ..." 


POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR  143 

"...  Which  keep  the  sun  from  the  rest  of  the  world," 
finished  Potterat.  "  .  .  .  And  these  houses,  how  they 
spring  up  one  after  the  other,  turning  their  backs  on 
their  poorer  neighbours,  peering  from  their  corner.  .  .  . 
It  looks  as  if  some  tipsy  giant  staggering  along  had  spilt 
them  out  of  his  pack  here  and  there,  as  the  old  legend 
declares,  ...  or  as  if  some  big  whales  had  run  aground 
here  and  there  on  the  bank.  .  .  .  There's  no  proportion 
about  them. . . .  And  never  a  church  tower  amongst  them, 
if  you  notice  .  .  .  though  there  are  plenty  of  turrets  on  the 
hotels,  monumental  railway-stations,  and  sky-scrapers,  as 
they  call  them  in  America.  .  .  .  But  one  never  sees  a 
real  home  being  built  now,  a  cottage  like  Eglantine 
Cottage,  for  instance,  or  a  nice  modest  little  house  that 
one  could  identify  oneself  with.  ..." 

V  Poor  David  !  Why  will  you  waste  time  in  regretting 
things!  .  .  ." 

"I'm  not  regretting  things.  ...  I'm  only  stating 
facts.  ..." 

By  giving  utterance  to  these  protests  from  time  to 
time  Potterat  tried  to  maintain  a  kind  of  consistency, 
to  assure  himself  that  he  was  not  giving  way  to  the  seduc- 
tions of  the  modern  movement ;  while  all  the  time,  in  his 
enforced  idleness,  the  taste  for  amusement  was  growing 
on  him  more  and  more,  so  that  a  day  without  a  match, 
or  a  race,  or  some  excitement,  was  beginning  to  seem  to 
him  long,  and  boring,  and  dull. 

They  reached  their  flat,  and  here,  as  always,  at  the 
moment  of  entering,  Madame  Potterat  said: 

"  Wipe  your  feet,  David.  ..." 

"  What  a  silly  fuss  to  make  about  a  few  planks  just 
because  they  happen  to  have  a  little  beeswax  on  them  !" 

For  a  moment  or  two,  the  couple  gazed  at  each  other 
in  astonishment,  but  by  the  time  they  sat  down  to 
supper,  the  little  storm  in  a  teacup  had  blown  over.  .  .  . 
Had  they  not  both  the  same  blue  eyes  .  .  .  the  same 


i44  POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR 

distaste  for  quarrels  ?  .  .  .  Presently  Potterat  noticed  that 
his  wife  had  done  her  hair  in  a  new  way,  piled  high 
on  the  top  of  her  head,  and  leaving  the  nape  of  her 
neck  free. 

"  The  devil !  .  .  .  Where  on  earth  have  you  picked  up 
that  new  fashion  ?" 

"  Oh,  everybody's  doing  it  like  this  now.  Do  you 
like  it  ?" 

"  H'm  !  .  .  .  Well,  it's  not  bad.  ...  It  certainly  makes 
you  look  younger.  .  .  .  Yesterday,  you  looked  like  my 
wife.  This  evening  you  look  more  like  my  daughter.  I 
shall  have  to  blacken  up  my  moustache,  and  dip  my 
head  in  the  tar-bucket.  .  .  .  Carlo,  you'll  have  nice  new 
smart  parents  soon,  spruced  up,  and  dressed  in  the  latest 
fashion.  .  .  .  You  will  scarcely  be  able  to  recognize  us. 
.  .  .  We'll  have  to  smarten  up,  otherwise  when  you  are 
grown-up,  and  a  managing  director  of  a  bank,  perhaps, 
and  a  freemason,  if  we  were  old  and  shabby  and  out-of- 
date,  we'd  have  to  be  put  in  a  corner  somewhere  out  of 
sight,  wouldn't  we  ?  .  .  ." 

■'  Oh,  no  !  .  .  .  I  should  buy  you  a  villa.  ...  I 
should  give  you  a  motor-car.  .   .   ." 

"  Ah,  how  nice  !  .  .  .  We  should  be  perfectly  happy 
then — with  smoked-glass  goggles,  leather  gloves,  fur- 
lined  coats,  perhaps.  .  .  .  '  I  say,  look  at  the  Potterats  !' 
people  would  say.  '  Aren't  they  swells  ?''...  No,  no,  my 
dears  !  Let's  remain  the  simple  people  we  have  always 
been;  let  us  stick  to  the  old  ways,  and  not  ape  these 
new  fashions.  .  .  ." 

"  All  the  same,  father,  the  other  day  when  we  were 
watching  Chevillard  looping  the  loop,  you  said,  '  This  is 
very  wonderful,  after  all !'  .  .  ." 

"  So  I  did  !  .  .  .  One  mustn't  reject  everything  just 
because  it's  new.  .  .  .  When  you  see  a  man  tumble 
head  over  heels  in  the  air  away  above  the  Cathedral 
spire,  you  can't  help  shouting  '  Bravo  !'....  But  to  argue 


POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR  145 

from  that  that  people's  brains  work  better  upside  down, 
is  another  thing  altogether.  ..." 

n  In  ten  years  from  now,  I  bet  you  I  shall  be  '  looping 
the  loop.'  " 

"  What's  that  you  say  ?  .  .  ."  Potterat  gazed  at  this 
duckling  he  had  hatched.  .  .  .  "  You  stick  to  the  ground, 
my  boy,  it's  safer,  and  one  knows  where  one  is.  .  .  ." 

In  spite  of  the  distractions  of  their  new  life,  on  the 
first  Sunday  in  every  month  the  Potterat  family,  as 
usual,  dressed  in  their  best  black  clothes,  came  out  of 
No.  5,  Avenue  des  Roses,  and  betook  themselves  to 
church. 

"  Nobody  else  here  goes  to  church,"  grumbled  Carlo. 

"  We  go  at  any  rate,"  said  his  mother.  "  Remember, 
my  boy,  that  God  sees  and  knows  everything." 

**  But  the  earth  is  round.  How  can  He  see  the  other 
side  if  He's  looking  at  this  side  ?" 

This  primitive  reasoning  floored  Potterat. 

"  Round  ?  .  .  .  Are  you  quite  sure  of  that  ?  .  .  .  In 
any  case,  that  has  nothing  to  do  with  our  going  to  church." 

Nevertheless,  Potterat  was  rather  inclined  to  agree  in 
his  heart  with  Carlo.  It  needs  a  good  deal  of  virtue 
to  make  a  man  sit  for  a  solid  hour  on  a  hard  bench, 
without  moving  a  muscle,  or  yawning. 

"  But  never  mind,"  he  thought.  "  One  doesn't  go  to 
hear  sermons  for  pleasure.  .  .  .  And  if  one  can't  always 
keep  one's  attention  fixed  on  the  sermon,  at  any  rate  the 
preacher's  voice  is  soothing." 

At  last  came  the  benediction,  and  once  outside  again, 
they  enjoyed  the  sunshine,  the  gay  dresses,  the  pleasant 
tinkling  of  the  tram  bells.  It  was  no  use  trying  to 
remember  the  text  of  the  sermon.  Only  a  pleasant  sense 
of  duty  done  remained  in  the  hearts  of  these  simple 
people.  Soon  after,  seated  round  the  Sunday  dinner-table, 
sanctified  by  the  ceremony  of  the  morning,  Potterat  said: 

10 


146  POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR 

"  In  this  barrack  here,  I  really  think  they  work 
harder  on  Sunday  mornings  than  they  do  all  the  rest  of 
the  week  put  together.  .  .  .  One  is  ironing  her  lace  and 
frills,  another  is  putting  a  new  bone  in  her  corset,  a  third 
is  hammering  in  nails.  .  .  .  This  afternoon  they'll  all  be 
running  off  to  some  fete,  this  evening  to  the  cinema. 
.  .  .  And  then  they'll  come  back  about  midnight,  com- 
pletely knocked  up,  and  without  a  sou.  ..." 

"  These  people  never  think,"  said  Madame  Potterat 
gently,  as  she  ladled  out  the  golden  soup  into  the  shining 
plates. 

"  All  the  same,"  went  on  Potterat,  "  there's  no  doubt 
that  religion,  once  you  begin  to  get  old  and  grey,  gives 
you  a  grip  on  something,  you  know.  .  .  .  You'll  find  that 
out,  my  boy,  when  you  come  to  seventy.  ...  At  that 
age,  the  only  '  looping  the  loop '  a  man  has  a  chance  of 
doing  is  into  the  next  world.  ..." 

Sometimes,  on  Sundays,  when  he  found  the  squalling 
of  the  children  on  the  various  balconies  rather  too  much 
for  him,  and  began  to  get  homesick  again,  Potterat  would 
go  up  to  town,  and  lift  the  blind  that  hung  in  front  of  the 
doorway  to  keep  out  the  flies  from  the  old  cafe  in  the  Rue 
d'Etraz.  In  the  streets,  bright  splashes  of  sunlight, 
the  silvery  gleam  of  a  flight  of  pigeons,  the  dark  blue  of 
the  shadows:  in  the  little  inn,  pewter  measures  wherein 
glittered  cool  wine,  broad  backs  bent  over  the  tables, 
slow,  leisurely  talking.  .  .  . 

When  Potterat  appeared  amongst  his  friends  on  this 
first  Sunday  in  July,  19 14,  the  circle  of  frequenters 
opened  to  receive  him.  They  were  talking  about  their 
length  of  service,  their  approaching  retirement,  their 
pensions. 

"  By  the  way,  what  age  are  you,  Potterat  ?  .  .  .  You 
look  just  the  same  always.  ..." 

"  Always  !  .  .  ."  replied  Potterat,  with  his  usual  cor- 
diality.    "  The  framework  is  sound;  I  can  see  to  drink 


POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR  147 

without  glasses .  .  .  and  I  always  keep  in  as  good  a  temper 
as  possible,  except  on  days  when  everything  goes 
wrong.  ..." 

"  It  agrees  with  you,  evidently.  Your  moustache  is 
more  pepper  than  salt  still.  ..." 

"  My  moustache  ?  .  .  .  Oh,  it's  still  not  a  bad  one.  .  .  . 
The  young  ladies,  and  even  some  of  the  old  ones,  make 
eyes  at  it  still  sometimes.  .  .  .  With  the  sun  shining  on 
it,  it  would  pass  for  a  bit  of  a  straw-rick.  ..." 

Such  were  the  harmless  jokes  and  kindly  chaff  that 
they  exchanged,  their  elbows  on  the  table,  looking  out 
of  the  corners  of  their  eyes  to  see  how  their  shafts  told. 
Presently  a  deeper  note  was  struck,  and  the  assembly 
began  to  discuss  European  politics.  Things  were  not 
going  at  all  well,  it  appeared.  The  heir  to  a  throne  had 
been  assassinated.  The  people  were  speaking  out  very 
freely,  raking  up  old  grievances,  whilst  the  diplomatists 
were  doing  their  best  to  pour  oil  on  the  flames.  Sovereigns 
were  already  mobilizing  God,  which  is  always  a  bad  sign. 

"  Each  of  them  thinks  he  has  only  to  send  up  marching 
orders  to  Heaven,  and  the  game  is  his.  ..." 

"  Take  my  word  for  it,  God  is  Swiss.  ...  In  other 
words,  He  is  neutral.  ..." 

Corbaz,  an  old  man  with  a  hooked  nose  and  thick  eye- 
lashes, a  man  of  few  words,  nudged  Potterat  in  the  ribs : 

''Do  you  know  what  I  think  ?  I  believe  that  there 
will  be  a  big  explosion  just  when  one  least  expects  it.  .  .  . 
From  Russia  to  England,  my  word,  every  one  of  them 
will  be  at  one  another's  throats.  It's  been  simmering, 
you  know.  .  .  .  For  the  last  fifty  years  or  so  they  have 
been  snarling,  piling  up  little  injuries,  the  sharp  ones 
amongst  them  have  been  pulling  all  the  strings,  flattering 
'some,  insulting  others,  offering  clocks  or  boxes  on  the  ear, 
as  the  case  might  be.  .  .  .  Oh  yes,  there  was  bound  to  be 
a  smash-up  one  of  these  days.  ..." 

Potterat  said  with  immense  dignity: 


148  POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR 

"  Well,  for  us  there  is  only  one  thing  to  do;  we  shall 
man  our  frontiers.  ...  I'll  undertake  myself  to  cover 
a  yard  and  a  half.  ..." 

Then  there  was  an  explosion  of  pure  patriotism.  These 
good  honest  men  defied  emperors,  jeered  at  would-be 
world-conquerors,  invoked  their  ancestors.  They  sang 
their  most  patriotic  songs,  <  La  Libre  Sarine,'  '  Au  Bord 
du  Ruin,' '  Dieu  nous  benira,'  etc.,  after  which  they  called 
for  another  two  litres.  .  .  .  Then  they  traced  out  plans 
on  the  table  with  their  thumb-nails:  rivers,  mountains, 
tunnels;  they  sent  out  troops  along  the  various  roads; 
they  won  decisive  victories;  and  altogether  had  an  in- 
spiring time.  Pahud  gave  them  his  opinion:  "  As  for 
me,  I'm  great  on  flanking  movements  .  .  .  but  you  must 
give  me  time,  because  of  my  shortness  of  breath.  ...  If  I 
had  time,  I'd  fall  on  them  from  behind.  ..." 

Milliquet  put  more  faith  in  marksmanship. 

"  We  Swiss  can  shoot,  you  know.  .  .  .  Ten  cartridges, 
eleven  men,  every  time.  .  .  .  No,  I'm  not  boasting  !  I'm 
talking  quite  calmly  and  coolly,  and  I  say  we  can't  be 
beaten.  ..." 

Potterat,  too,  had  his  preferences. 

"  Writh  a  '  corporation '  like  mine,"  said  he,  "I 
shouldn't  be  exactly  the  best  man  for  prolonged  attacks. 
.  .  .  But  if  it's  a  question  of  firing  from  the  knee,  in  a 
sheltered  position,  I'm  equal  to  any  man  in  Europe. 
...  Or  in  hand-to-hand  fighting  I'm  all  there:  you  take 
your  rifle  by  the  barrel,  and  pitch  into  them  for  all  you're 
worth  .  .  .  you  bite  and  kick  and  growl,  like  fighting  dogs 
.  .  .  and  when  it's  all  over,  you  collect  the  dead  in  a 
heap,  climb  upon  them,  and  mount  guard.  .  .  .  That's 
the  way.  .  .  .  With  us,  you  see,  we  only  fight  for  liberty, 
for  justice  .  .  .  we're  on  the  side  of  all  little  oppressed 
nations.  .  .  .  We  have  a  glorious  past  behind  us.  .  .  . 
We  are  the  freest  people  in  the  world.  We  are  the 
parents  of  all  republics.  We  founded  republicanism 
.  .  .  and  there  you  are  !  .  .  ." 


POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR  149 

The  noise  increased.  They  sang  and  talked  all  at  once, 
But  Verniaud,  the  pessimist  of  the  little  party,  had  not 
yet  had  his  say.  Taking  advantage  of  a  pause  in  the 
uproar,  he  began : 

"  My  poor  friends  !  .  .  .  This  is  all  very  fine  !  .  .  .  Now 
just  suppose  for  a  minute  that  war  is  declared  to-day, 
and  that  they  send  their  cavalry  against  us,  fifty  thousand 
men,  with  guns,  and  Maxims,  and  infantry  coming  up 
behind.  .  .  .  Where  do  you  think  they'd  have  got  to  by 
nine  o'clock  in  the  evening,  before  we  had  had  time  to 
mobilize,  or  to  fire  a  single  shot  ?  .  .  .  Speed  is  everything 
nowadays.  ...  I  shouldn't  be  at  all  surprised  if  they 
were  gathering  our  grapes  this  autumn.  ..." 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  '  they  '  ?" 

"  I  mean  the Oh,  you  know  very  well !" 

"  But  we  are  neutral.   They  can't  do  anything  to  us. . . ." 

"  If  ever  anyone  is  trying  to  murder  you,  just  you  try 
to  tell  the  man  with  the  knife  that  you  are  neutral.  ..." 

"  What  about  Morat  ?  .  .  .  and  Morgarten  ?  .  .  .  and 
Sempach  ?  .  .  ."  said  Corbaz. 

"  Oh,  that's  an  old  story.  .  .  .  Battles  in  those  days 
were  a  question  of  muscle  .  .  .  and  then,  too,  one  had  time 
to  turn  round,  as  it  were,  to  choose  one's  position.  .  .  . 
But  to-day,  we  have  to  reckon  with  railways,  aeroplanes, 
motor-cars,  wireless  telegraphy.  .  .  .  And  think  of  all 
those  tunnels !  .  .  ." 

This  impressed  Corbaz. 

['  Yes,  that's  true.  ...  I  said  so  long  ago.  If  we're 
lost,  it'll  be  through  those  tunnels." 

M  And  through  the  hotels  too.  ..." 

"  People  don't  vote  any  more  now.  .  .  .  The  young  men 
don't  care.  ..." 

"  Ah  !  .  .  .  We're  governed  by  a  lot  of  lawyers  nowa- 
days. ..." 

"  Yes,  the  country  is  going  to  the  dogs  ..."  said  a  voice, 
as  they  rose  from  the  table.  They  parted  rather  silently, 
shaking  their  heads,  and  Potterat  said  to  Delessert : 


150  POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR 

"  That  wet  blanket,  Verniaud,  spoils  everything,  with 
his  pessimistic  talk  .  .  .  sending  us  away  gloomy  and 
depressed  when  we  were  all  aglow  !  .  .  .  I  must  do  some- 
thing to  take  the  taste  of  it  out  of  my  mouth.  ...  I  know 
what !  .  ,  .  There  is  some  sort  of  a  fete  at  Ouchy  to-night, 
music  and  fireworks.  I'll  go  home  and  have  some  sup- 
per, and  take  my  wife  and  the  boy  out.  .  .  .  These  are 
times  when  a  man  feels  he  must  do  something  to  keep  up 
his  spirits.  ..." 

From  eight  o'clock  onward  the  tread  of  many  feet 
resounded  on  the  pavements,  still  hot  from  the  July  sun. 

"  Good-bye  !  I  hope  you'll  have  a  nice  time  !"  called 
out  the  little  cripple  from  his  basement  window,  as  the 
Potterats  filed  out  after  supper. 

"  Good-night,  dear,  good-night,"  replied  Madame 
Potterat.  "  What  a  dreadful  existence  for  that,  poor 
child  !  Never  to  go  out !  Never  to  see  anything  !  .  .  ." 
she  added  with  a  sigh. 

"  That  depends,"  said  her  husband.  "If  war  does 
break  out,  it's  the  cripples  will  be  the  lucky  ones.  .  .  . 
Not  to  mention  that  in  the  long-run  a  boy  who  is  always 
indoors  learns  more.  .  .  .    Remember  that,  Carlo.  ..." 

The  water  of  the  Lake  gleamed  softly,  reflecting  the 
first  stars,  for  night  falls  slowly  on  an  exquisite  July 
evening.  They  paid  their  franc,  and  passed  through  the 
barrier.  Here  all  was  gaiety  and  merry  talk  and  laughter, 
pretty  frocks,  the  crunching  of  the  gravel  under  the 
passing  feet,  and  the  breaking  of  the  waves  on  the  rocks ; 
away  off  across  the  Lake  the  villages,  like  bunches  of  little 
white  onions,  nestled  amidst  their  green  fields  and  their 
vineyards,  above  which  the  swallows  circled  in  wide 
sweeps. 

"  What  crowds  of  people  !"  repeated  Madame  Potterat. 
"  And  how  lovely !  .  .  .  perfectly  exquisite  !  ...  it  all 
looks.     A  tremendous  success.     I'm  so  glad  we  came." 

The  plump  matron  carried  herself  well  and  gracefully. 
The  roses  on  her  hat  trembled  on  their  stalks.     On  other 


POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR  151 

women,  as  gay  and  smiling  as  herself,  she  cast  glances 
of  calm  equality,  or  serene  superiority. 

"  Father,"  said  Carlo,  "  let's  hire  a  little  boat  ?" 

"No,  certainly  not.  I  don't  want  to  be  drowned  at 
night " 

So  they  sat  on  the  low  wall,  the  warm  stone  of 
which  overhung  the  tepid  water.  Generally,  one  moon 
sufficed,  but  to-night  a  hundred  electric  moons  shed  on 
the  grass  lawns,  on  the  bushes,  on  the  gay  beflowered 
hats,  that  silvery  light  which  seemed  to  bear  with  it  the 
muffled  strains  of  a  waltz  played  by  invisible  musicians. 

Potterat  felt  a  touch  of  sadness  as  he  gazed,  half 
enviously,  on  the  laughing  boys  and  girls  round  him. 

"It's  a  pity  that  life  should  be  so  like  a  hill,  with 
people  mounting  on  one  side,  going  down  on  the  other." 

The  whistle  of  an  ascending  rocket  cut  short  his 
reflections.  The  long  flexible  snake-like  neck  elongated 
itself,  rose  to  a  great  height,  paused  there,  then  fell  down, 
leaving  behind  a  shower  of  sparks  which  were  extinguished 
one  by  one  beside  the  winking  stars.  Down  on  the  edge 
of  the  Lake,  the  Venetian  lanterns  twinkled  amongst  the 
trees  like  oranges,  squibs  burst  amongst  the  laughing 
crowds,  the  band  played  softly.  .  .  .  When  a  woman 
passed,  dressed  apparently  in  transparent  gauze,  Pot- 
terat said  to  his  son : 

"  Look  up  there,  Carlo  !  .  .  .  Everything  splendid  is 
carried  out  on  the  heights  !  .  .  ."    Aside  to  his  wife  he  said : 

"  Did  you  see  that  ?  .  .  .  Slit-up  skirts,  stockings 
like  a  spider's  web,  her  dress  cut  so  low  that  it  shows 
the  whole  of  her  neck,  and  openwork  here,  there,  and 
everywhere  !  .  .  .  Exposing  herself  like  that  .  .  .  just 
enough  to  make  still  greater  fools  of  the  fools  now  going 
about  the  world.  .  .  .  But  some  of  the  young  men,  nowa- 
days, are  just  as  bad  .  .  .  with  their  long  hair,  their  open 
shirt  fronts  showing  their  chests,  their  necklaces,  their 
bracelets.  ...  I  tell  you  what,  if  this  sort  of  thing  had 
been  going  on  when  I  was  in  the  Police,  I  should  have 


152  POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR 

brought  them  all  to  the  police-station  to  give  an 
account  of  themselves.  ...  Oh  yes,  there's  not  a  doubt 
of  it,  the  time  is  ripe  for  war.  The  world  is  growing 
decadent.  If  people  try  to  live  standing  on  their  heads, 
they're  very  likely  to  wake  up  and  find  themselves  sitting 
in  the  fire.  .  .  .  Come  along  and  listen  to  the  band.  ..." 

The  conductor,  a  short,  thick-set  man,  with  a  red 
face,  led  his  circle  of  shining  instruments  with  sweeping 
gestures. 

"  Ah,  there's  no  one  like  him  for  bringing  out  the  lilt  of 
a  waltz.  .  .  ." 

"  He  must  be  pretty  old  !  .  .  ."  said  Madame  Potterat. 

"  Old  !  .  .  .  Not  a  bit  of  it !  My  own  age,  that's  all. 
.  .  .  He's  a  fine  conductor.  ...  I  like  the  things  he  chooses 
too,  those  pieces  where  the  air  comes  out  strong  and  clear 
amongst  the  runs  and  shakes,  and  finishes  up  in  the  end 
clean  and  smart,  with  one  big  major  chord.  ..." 

When  the  last  firework  had  rushed  up  into  the  sky,  the 
musicians  methodically  emptied  out  the  tubes  of  their 
instruments,  and  packed  away  their  music-stands.  The 
lamps  began  to  go  out,  and  men  were  taking  down  the 
strings  of  Venetian  lanterns.  In  the  sky,  which  suddenly 
seemed  much  darker,  the  stars  shone  out  more  brightly, 
as  if  taking  heart  again.  And  young  couples  strolled  along 
in  the  damp  heat  of  that  airless  night,  in  the  languor 
which  succeeds  excitement.  .  .  . 

"To  keep  in  good  health  the  best  of  all  ways 
Is  in  frolic  and  laughter  to  spend  our  days," 

yelled  a  party  installed  on  the  terrace  of  a  cafe. 

"  Just  listen  to  that !"  murmured  Potterat.  "  Well, 
William's  going  to  give  them  all  some  fun  presently.  .  .  . 
After  all,  if  it's  a  question  of  dying  of  war,  or  dying  of 
luxury,  one  might  as  well  die  of  war.  Let  them  all 
come  !  .  .  ." 

"  Come,  David  !  Think  of  the  fete,  instead  of  all 
these  dismal  things.  ..." 


POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR  153 

"  Ah,  those  who  see  clearly  what's  coming  are  always 
told  they're  cracked.  .  .  .  Wait  until  the  crash  comes  !  .  .  . 
This  fete  gives  me  a  funny  sort  of  feeling,  you  know.  .  .  ." 

"  Hallo,  Potterat !  .  .  .     Good-evening,  Madame  !" 

They  turned  and  saw  Bigarreau. 

"  Well,  how  goes  it,  David  ?" 

"  Oh,  pretty  well  on  the  whole.  I'm  glad  to  see  you. 
I  like  the  fellows  who  wear  the  gloves  the  sun  gives  them. 
.  .  .  Have  you  seen  anyone  else  you  know  here  to-night  ? " 

"  Good  Heavens,  no  !  .  .  .  In  this  neighbourhood,  I'm 
as  lost  as — I  don't  know  what !    It's  a  foreign  land  to  me." 

"Do  you  remember  it  thirty  years  ago  ?  .  .  .  When  the 
women  used  to  pick  their  mattresses  out  on  the  road,  and 
the  cats  used  to  come  and  lie  in  the  middle  of  them. 
Everybody  one  met  used  the  speech  of  the  country,  a 
friendly  speech.  .  .  .  Those  were  good  times.  .  .  .  One 
turned  sometimes  to  look  at  an  extra  fine  man,  but  not 
to  look  at  petticoats.  .  .  .  Nowadays,  it  is  the  triumph 
of  Eve.  ...  At  eight  years  old,  even,  they  begin  to  make 
eyes  !  .  .  .  I  heard  one  slip  of  a  girl  the  other  day  saying 
to  another  one,  and  by  way  of  a  compliment  too,  if  you 
please,  '  You  look  like  a  foreigner !'  .  .  .  And  mothers 
nowadays  give  their  children  names  that  are  enough  to 
make  them  go  to  the  bad :  Roxane  Tauxe,  Edmee  Petoud, 
Odette  Truquet,  Jaqueline  Petermann.  ...  At  fifteen 
the  girls  think  they  can  do  as  they  like,  and  at  sixteen 
they  run  about  the  streets  in  gowns  that  you  can  see 
through.  .  .  .  My  opinion  is  that  there  is  a  thorn  in  the 
heart  of  the  century.  .  .  .  And  the  worst  thing  about  all 
these  shows  we  are  constantly  seeing  is,  that  everyone 
is  more  or  less  coarsened  by  them,  becomes  more  like  a 
pig.  .  .  .    Don't  you  think  so,  Bigarreau  ?" 

"  Don't  run  down  pigs.  .  .  .  They  may  be  a  bit 
dirty  in  their  habits,  but  anyhow,  they  don't  cheat  you, 
they  don't  lie,  they  don't  steal.  At  heart  they're  quite 
decent.  They  are  pigs,  and  nothing  else  .  .  .  but  man 
is  that,  and  something  more.  ..." 


154  POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR 

By  this  time  they  had  reached  No.  5,  Avenue  des  Roses. 
Up  on  a  window-sill,  a  cat  sat,  mewing  piteously. 

"  What's  the  matter,  Minon  ?  .  .  .  Are  you  wondering 
at  the  ways  of  the  world  ?  .  .  .  It'll  be  a  long  time 
before  you  can  understand  them." 

"  Oh  look,  David !"  said  Madame  Potterat  once  more, 
before  putting  the  key  into  the  lock.  "  What  crowds  of 
people  are  going  up  to  town  !  .  .  ." 

"  Oh,  all  right !  All  right !  .  .  .  As  if  one  hadn't  seen 
more  than  enough  of  these  people  !  .  .  .  Oh,  we're  going 
to  have  a  nice  peaceful  night,  I  can  see ;  the  gramophones 
braying  at  the  cafe,  lovers  promenading  about,  drunkards. 
...  If  we  keep  the  windows  closed,  we  shall  be  stifled  : 
if  we  open  them,  we  might  as  well  be  in  the  street.  ..." 

In  the  square,  a  band  of  young  men  were  howling  with 
savage  energy: 

"  Deutschland,  Deutschland  iiber  alles !"  .... 

"Ho,  yes  !  .  .  .  The  Vaudois  people  are  getting  scarce 
about  here.  .  .  .  Very  soon,  we  shall  be  going  about, 
no  doubt,  with  labels  on  our  backs :  '  Old  Swiss.  Rare 
specimens.  Please  do  not  touch.' . . .  Ah  well ! .  . .  Good- 
night, Bigarreau.  ..." 

They  shook  hands  and  were  just  going  in  when  Madame 
Potterat  gave  a  cry  of  alarm : 

"  Where's  Carlo  ?  .  .  ." 

"  Carlo  !  .  . .  He  was  here  just  now.  He  must  have  run 
out  again  to  see  some  of  those  foreigners  who  are  yelling 
those  horrible  songs.  ...  At  the  least  thing  he's  off  like 
a  shot,  and  if  one  didn't  look  after  him,  he  wouldn't  come 
home  till  four  o'clock  in  the  morning.  ...  H'm,  yes  !  .  .  . 
The  clergyman  says  in  church,  when  one  is  getting 
married:  *  May  God  send  you  the  blessing  of  children  !' 
.  .  .  My  word  !  .  .  .  A  nice  sort  of  blessing  !  .  .  .  I  should 
say  rather  '  Blessed  are  the  barren  !'  .  .  ." 


CHAPTER  VII 

On  market  days  the  Potterats  went  shopping  together. 
They  bought  vegetables  and  fruit  from  their  old  friends 
Bigarreau  and  Burnand.  On  the  ist  August,  Potterat, 
holding  fast  gallantly  to  the  biggest  basket,  left  his  wife 
for  a  little  while  to  go  and  see  his  old  chum  Corbaz,  who 
had  retired,  after  forty  years  of  office  life,  to  a  little  flat 
in  the  Palud,  where  he  struggled  with  his  gout.  They 
had  pushed  the  invalid's  chair  up  to  the  open  window, 
which  overlooked  the  Place  de  la  Palud,  a  gay  and 
bustling  scene. 

"  The  flag  is  flying  from  the  tower  of  the  Town  Hall  in 
honour  of  the  National  Fete,"  explained  Potterat.  "  It 
looks  fine  against  the  blue  of  the  sky." 

"  Yes,"  replied  Corbaz:  "  By  the  way,  the  news 
to-day  is  not  very  good.     Have  you  read  it  ?  .  .  ." 

Just  then  from  the  Place,  fragrant  with  the  smell  of 
fresh  raspberries,  rose  the  sound  of  a  rapidly  beaten 
drum,  a  sound  which  had  something  menacing  in  it. 
Immediately  the  market  was  in  a  state  of  commotion; 
there  was  a  swift  mingling  of  many  colours,  as  green 
hats,  blue  jackets,  and  grey  suits  rushed  together  like 
a  swarm  of  ants,  all  quivering  with  excitement.  The 
seed  merchant  left  his  stall  to  take  care  of  itself,  the 
seller  of  cream  cheeses  forsook  his  red  umbrella  ...  all 
were  closely  clustered  round  the  drum.  Now  from  the 
heart  of  the  crowd  a  voice  began  to  intone. 

"  What  does  he  say  ?  .  .  ."  asked  the  old  man,  raising 
himself  on  the  arms  of  his  chair.  Leaning  out  of  the 
window,  Potterat  watched  the  crowd,  as  one  watches 

i55 


156  POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR 

the  happening  of  some  terrible  thing  one  has  often 
foretold,  only  half  believing  it,  and  which  suddenly  comes 
to  pass.  Never  before  had  he  seen  his  country-people 
preserve  such  a  tragic  silence. 

"  What  is  it  ?  What's  the  matter  ?  .  .  ."  cried  Potterat 
from  the  window.  A  man  looked  up  with  a  stupefied 
face. 

"  War  !  .  .  .    We're  called  out !  .  .  ." 

Potterat  repeated:  M  War  !  .  .  .   We're  called  out !  .  .  ." 

Terrified,  his  hands  still  convulsively  clasping  the  arms 
of  his  chair,  Corbaz  gazed  fixedly  at  the  clock  of  the  Town 
Hall,  with  its  brown  hands,  its  golden  figures,  the  dial  he 
had  so  often  consulted.  That  dial  he  now,  in  fancy,  saw 
demolished,  in  ruins,  as  if  by  a  lightning  stroke.  And 
Corbaz  repeated  in  his  turn: 

"  War !  .  .  .   They're  caUed  up  ?  .  .  .   What  ?  .  .  ." 

In  the  houses  opposite  people  were  leaning  from  their 
windows,  a  tailor,  with  his  iron  still  in  his  hand,  from  one, 
an  old  toothless  woman  from  another,  a  cook  from  a 
third,  some  children,  the  notary,  with  his  pen  behind  his 
ear,  Madame  Gindroz,  the  butcher's  wife,  with  her 
crimson  face,  and  her  tie  of  a  different  red.  All  these 
shouted  up  to  Potterat : 

"  War  !  .  .  .   It's  war  !  .  .  .   We're  called  up  !"  .  .  . 

"Not  you!  .  .  ."  shouted  Potterat  to  the  butcher's 
wife  with  a  sort  of  impatience;  then  seizing  the  basket 
where  sea-kale,  lettuces,  plums,  lay  side  by  side,  and 
leaving  Corbaz  trying  to  rise  from  his  chair,  he  flew  down 
the  narrow  tortuous  stairs,  and  mingled  with  the  crowd. 

"  Are  they  already  in  Switzerland  ?  .  .  .  Where  are 
they  ?  ..."  he  asked.  The  crowd  surged  backwards  and 
forwards,  and  everyone  asked  questions  which  no  one 
could  answer. 

"  But  doesn't  anyone  know  anything  ?" 

"  What  do  you  want  to  know  ?" 

"  Have  they  wired  from  Berne  ?  .  .  ." 


POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR  157 

"  Nobody  seems  to  know.  .  .  .  But  anyhow  the  order 
is  to  mobilize.  Elite,  Landwehr,  Landsturm,  .  .  .  every- 
body's to  go.  .  .  ." 

"  Then  they  must  have  invaded  Switzerland.  . 

"  I  shouldn't  wonder.  ..." 

It  takes  only  a  moment  to  go  from  peace  to  war.  How 
trivial  these  baskets  of  vegetables  and  fruit  seemed 
now.  .  .  .  Swept  backward  by  an  eddy  of  the  crowd,  a 
man  sat  down  in  one  of  them  .  .  .  and  nobody  laughed. 
And  one  poor  woman,  with  her  hands  on  her  hips,  her  bon- 
net tilted  over  one  ear,  kept  on  monotonously  repeating : 

"  Good  God  !  .  .  .  All  to  go  !  ...  I  have  four  sons  of 
military  age  !  .  .  ." 

A  motor-car  forced  its  way  through  the  crowd.  In  it 
sat  some  staff  officers,  their  heads  close  together,  evidently 
discussing  the  situation  with  each  other. 

"That's  Bornand!  .  .  ." 

Then  some  younger  men  passed,  running  as  if  to  put 
out  a  fire.  Everywhere  men  came  out  of  their  houses, 
approached  strangers,  and  clustered  in  groups  in  the 
cross-roads.  Already  at  one  window,  an  artillery  uni- 
form was  spread  out  on  the  sill  to  air.  .  .  .  The  crowd 
grew  more  and  more  excited ;  they  shouted  and  gesticu- 
lated, and  uttered  big  threats  against  the  enemy.  But 
there  was  gloom  in  every  heart.  Something  turned  like  a 
millwheel  in  their  heads,  legs  trembled  and  grew  weak, 
hands  felt  like  lead,  and  a  throbbing  of  the  arms  told  of 
the  quick  rush  of  blood  to  the  heart.  Emptying  a  basket  of 
spinach  on  the  ground,,  one  woman  explained  to  the  crowd 
at  large,  none  of  whom  took  the  slightest  notice  of  her : 
.  "  I'm  throwing  it  away,  that  spinach. ...  If  there's  been 
one  foot,  there  have  been  thirty  in  that  basket.  ...  What 
good  is  it  after  that  ?  .  .  .    Besides,  it's  war  !  .  .  ." 

Madame  Potterat  sat,  her  hands  spread  out  on  her  lap, 
and  regarded  her  husband  with  wide  frightened  eyes. 


158  POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR 

'■  War  !  .  .  ."  she  murmured.     "  War  !  .  .  ." 

On  the  wall  opposite,  the  deer  was  still  quenching  its 
thirst  at  the  brook  in  the  peaceful  woodland  glade,  on 
the  floor  the  new  carpet  still  shone  in  multi-coloured 
splendour.  Round  the  table  stood  the  five  armchairs. .  .  . 
A  little  peaceful  interior.  .  .  .  Tragically  Potterat  groaned : 

"  Well,  well !  .  .  .  There's  your  fine  drawing-room  in 
the  soup  !  .  .  ." 

As  she  moved  about  among  her  saucepans  later,  she 
said,  sprinkling  sugar,  instead  of  salt,  over  the  cutlets : 

"  Was  it  worth  while  breaking  my  back  with  hard  work 
over  it  ?  .  .  .  and  selling  our  land,  and  putting  our  money 
in  the  bank  ?  .  .  .  What  will  happen  to  it  ?  .  .  .  They'll 
take  everything  !  .  .  .  This  afternoon  I'll  collect  all  our 
silver  and  good  things,  and  take  them  to  Aunt  Francoise 
at  Romainmotier.  They'll  never  find  them  in  that  out- 
of-the-way  corner.  .  .  .  Oh,  good  gracious  !  .  .  .  There, 
I've  sugared  the  meat  !  .  .  .  Oh  well,  I  can't  help  it !  .  .  . 
In  any  case,  nobody  wants  to  eat  anything  !  .  .  ." 

"  On  the  contrary,"  protested  Potterat.  "  This  is  just 
the  time  that  one  wants  to  keep  up  one's  strength.  .  .  . 
Mon  Dieu!  Think  of  all  those  big  guns,  and  mitrail- 
leuses; all  those  rifles  and  bayonets  which  are  longing  to 
begin  their  work  !  .  .  .  How  many  of  those  who  eat  their 
dinner  to-day  will  perhaps  be  dead  to-morrow  ?  .  .  . 
WTar  was  bound  to  come  .  .  .  the  madness  of  the  world 
was  past  all  bounds  .  .  .  the  rottenness  was  beginning  to 
stink.  .  .  .  We  were  getting  too  soft,  too  wrapped  up  in 
cotton  wool.  Now  we'll  have  to  lie  on  the  hard  ground, 
often  with  an  empty  stomach,  and  to  call  up  our  courage 
from  our  boots  if  necessary.  ..." 

"  To  lie  on  the  hard  ground  ?  .  .  ." 

"  Well,  how  do  we  know  what  may  happen !  .  .  . 
Russia,  Germany,  Austria,  Montenegro,  Serbia,  France, 
England.  .  .  .  Three  hundred  millions  of  people  firing  at 
each  other  over  our  heads,  and  we  in  the  middle  of  them  ! 


POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR  159 

Do  you  imagine  that  we  shall  be  left  long  quietly  in  our 
beds  ?  .  .  .  I  bet  you  it  won't  be  more  than  a  week  or  so, 
before  the  enemy  will  be  marching  past  our  windows.  .  .  . 
And  if  so,  I'll  establish  myself  in  the  cellar,  and  wipe  out 
everyone  who  comes  within  range.  ..." 

"  For  goodness'  sake,  be  quiet,  David !  .  .  .  Suppose 
somebody  heard  you  !  .  .  .  There's  one  of  them  on  the 
floor  above.  ..." 

"Who  ?  .  .  .  Schneegans  ?  .  .  .  Let  him  just  say  a 
word,  and  I'll  soon  send  him  to  the  floor  below.  .  .  .  For 
the  present,  anyhow,  we  can  do  what  we  like  in  our  own 
house,  I  hope.  ..." 

Everyone  was  in  a  state  of  excitement.  People  flew 
out  on  their  balconies,  and  in  again,  as  if  some  insect  had 
stung  them.  A  voice  called  out  from  a  fourth-floor 
window: 

"  Monsieur  Potterat !  .  .  .  Monsieur  Potterat !  .  .  .  If 
it  should  become  necessary,  may  we  bury  our  silver  in 
your  garden  ?  .  .  ." 

"  Oh,  certainly,  Madame,  certainly.  .  .  .  Only  they'll 
know  everything  about  it.  .  .  .  There  are  spies  on 
every  side.  ..." 

In  the  Square  outside,  people  eagerly  snatched  from 
the  newsboy  the  papers,  still  damp  from  the  press. 

'  Well,"  someone  said,  "  as  long  as  France  keeps  quiet 
there  is  some  hope.  .  .  .  There  she  is  with  her  Caillaux 
business.  .  .  .    She'll  give  in  again,  no  doubt.  ..." 

A  rumour  went  round  that  some  French  Customs 
officers  and  a  detachment  of  German  dragoons  had  had 
a  scrap  close  to  the  Swiss  frontier:  a  dozen  or  so  killed. 
.  .  .  Throughout  the  whole  of  France,  from  the  Vosges 
to  the  Pyrenees,  the  tocsin  was  sounding.  Some  millions 
of  men,  already,  had  set  out  to  the  sound  of  their  bugles. 

"  I  don't  like  the  look  of  things  at  aU  !  .  .  ."  said  Pot- 
terat. "  We  are  surrounded  on  all  sides.  Well,  at  any 
rate,  we'll  die  standing  !  .  .  .    To-morrow,  I  shall  enroll 


160  POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR 

myself.  .  .  .  Thirty  years  in  the  Police  !  .  .  .  One's  pretty 
well  accustomed  to  war.  ...  To  begin  with,  if  I  meet 
anyone  who  stares  at  me  too  impudently,  I'll  run  his  head 
into  the  nearest  drain.  ..." 

"  Do  be  quiet,  David  !  .  .  ." 

"  I  won't  be  quiet !  .  .  .  Why  should  I  ?  I  was  only 
making  a  remark.  Surely  a  man's  got  a  right  to  do 
that !  .  .  ." 

He  went  out,  and  presently  met  some  of  his  ac- 
quaintances. 

"  Things  are  getting  hot,  eh  ?  .  .  ." 

"  Nearly  cooked,  I  should  say.  .  .  ." 

"  WThat  a  good  thing  it  is  that  we  are  neutral !"  said 
another,  with  a  soft  voice.  "  Our  territory  is  protected 
by  treaty  from  invasion." 

"  Poor  fellow  !  .  .  .  Treaties  indeed !  .  .  .  These  big 
nations  make  treaties  all  right,  but  if  a  moment  comes 
when  they  are  inconvenient  they  squash  them.  .  .  . 
They're  only  dodges  to  put  us  to  sleep.  . l .  .  No,  if  you 
want  to  be  let  alone,  fix  your  bayonet,  and  put  a  couple 
of  hundred  cartridges  in  your  belt.  ,.  .  ." 

The  big  space  in  front  of  the  railway-station,  guarded 
by  elderly  Landsturm  men,  in  full  uniform,  was  packed 
with  an  immense  crowd.  Potterat,  clutching  a  parcel  in 
both  arms,  was  jostled  and  pushed  here  and  there  by  the 
crowd. 

"  This  is  for  my  son,  the  bank  manager,  and  for  my 
son-in-law  .  .  ."he  told  someone. 

But  would  it  ever  be  possible  to  find  a  son  in  such  a 
crowd,  or  a  son-in-law  either  ?  Not  to  mention  that  men 
in  uniform  look  so  very  much  alike.  .  .  .  There  was  a 
sudden  move  forward,  some  shouts,  and  a  wave  of  people 
pushing  each  other  back.  Women  and  children  began 
to  scream,  but  a  way  had  to  be  made  for  the  soldiers, 
who  came  marching  along,  with  their  square  knapsacks 


POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR  161 

on  their  backs,  the  straps  crossed  on  their  broad  chests. 
Strong  odours  of  leather,  of  naphthaline,  of  camphor, 
floated  in  the  wake  of  these  knapsacks.  What  fine 
fellows  they  looked  with  their  great  hands  and  feet,  their 
tanned  faces,  and  red- brown  necks.  A  blazing  sun  made 
stars  on  the  peaks  of  their  caps,  as  their  hob-nailed  boots 
crunched  the  gravel,  some  of  them  laughing  to  hide  their 

emotion In  the  station  entrance  hall  another  crowd  of 

people  awaited  them,  trains  were  drawn  up  at  all  the  plat- 
forms, and  presently  every  door  and  window  was  blocked 
with  heads,  and  showed  the  sparkle  of  bright  buttons  on 
the  blue  and  green  uniforms,  and  the  spots  of  colour 
which  were  faces.  And  on  the  platforms  women  young 
and  old,  children,  all  those  who  were  being  left  behind. 
.  .  .  Will  they  ever  come  back,  these  dear  soldiers  ?  .  .  . 
They  looked  at  each  other  in  silence,  reading  in  each 
other's  eyes  the  hidden  thoughts,  the  love  and  devotion 
of  this  sacred  hour.  Potterat  listened  to  the  various 
noises  of  singing,  of  shunting  carriages,  the  panting  of 
engines,  short  quick  words  of  command,  all  the  bustle  and 
noise  of  battle,  already,  and  he  thought  of  the  willing 
sacrifice.  .  .  . 

In  the  front  row  of  the  crowd  stood  a  little  woman  with 
a  gaily  flowered  hat;  in  her  arms  a  baby  nestled  in  its 
laces.  Suddenly  a  big  artilleryman  leaped  down  from 
the  train  and  folded  them  in  his  arms,  his  tall  head  bent 
so  low  that  his  kepi  was  hidden  under  the  brim  of  the 
rose- wreathed  hat.  They  clung  to  each  other  as  if  it  were 
their  last  good-bye. 

"  Hallo,  Gunner  !"  shouted  a  voice.  "  We're  off !  .  .  ." 

The  big  soldier  went  off  without  looking  back. 

'  There  is  a  parting  such  as  one  never  sees  on  the 
stage,"  thought  Potterat. 

As  a  cripple  passed,  his  crutches  tap-tapping  on  the 
pavement,  a  soldier  said : 

"  That's  what  we  shall  be  like  in  a  few  weeks'  time." 

ii 


162  POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR 

No  one  replied.  They  were  already  inured  to  tragedy. 
Fate  had  them  in  its  grip.  Moved  to  the  heart,  Potterat 
rushed  up  to  the  train. 

V  Look  here,  my  boys,"  he  said,  "  this  parcel  was 
for  my  son  and  my  son-in-law,  but  in  this  crush  how  am 
I  ever  going  to  find  them  ?  .  .  .  Here  you  are,  if  you'll 
have  it !  .  .  .  There  are  sausages  and  ham,  a  bottle  of 
wine,  and  some  pears.  .  .  .  Eat  all  you  can,  that's  the  way 
to  keep  your  heart  up.  .  .  .  Good  luck  to  you  all !  .  .  . 
And  if  you  have  to  hit,  hit  hard  !  .  .  ." 

"  Oh,  we'll  hit !  .  .  ."  grimly  replied  the  man  who  had 
taken  the  packet. 

Happy  in  this  little  act  of  good  comradeship,  Potterat 
was  walking  along  the  train  when  he  caught  sight  of  his 
daughter  Louise,  his  little  grandson,  and  in  front  of  them 
at  the  door  of  the  carriage,  the  surly,  honest  face  of  his 
son-in-law,  Justin  Schmid,  which  seemed  to  have  lost 
much  of  its  individuality  under  the  kepi.  Forgetting 
altogether  in  the  emotion  of  the  moment  that  Schmid 
had  never  replied  to  his  conciliatory  letter,  Potterat 
rushed  up  to  them. 

"  I  had  a  parcel  for  you  and  for  Ernest.  ...  I  hunted 
everywhere,  and  couldn't  find  either  of  you,  and  the 
train's  just  going  out,  so  I  gave  it  away.  .  .  .  You  must 
take  the  will  for  the  deed  now.  .  .  .  What  a  pity !  .  .  . 
There  was  ham,  and  sausages,  and  pears,  and  a  bottle  of 
good  wine.  ...  I  was  hoping  that  you  would  have  eaten 
and  drunk  them  in  the  spirit  of  reconciliation.  From 
to-day  there  are  no  longer  German-Swiss  and  French- 
Swiss.  .  .  .  We  are  all  the  same  ...  all  fighting  under  one 
flag,  isn't  that  so  ?  .  .  ." 

Louise  smiled  at  her  father,  and  slowly  Justin's  gaunt 
face  lit  up. 

"I'm  very  glad  to  have  seen  you.  .  .  .  Look  after  Louise 
a  bit  while  I'm  away,  won't  you  ?  I'm  leaving  her  in 
rather  a  mess,  I'm  afraid.  ..." 


POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR  163 

r<  That's  all  right,  we'll  look  after  her.  .  .  .  Those  who 
stay  behind  must  help  each  other  to  keep  things  going " 

The  two  men  exchanged  a  long  and  silent  handshake. 
.  .  .  There  was  a  whistle,  a  fresh  outburst  of  noise.  .  .  . 
What  can  two  people  say  to  each  other  at  such  a 
moment  ?  Which  needed  the  greater  strength  ?  Which 
felt  the  parting  most  ?  Those  who  were  going  off  to  meet 
the  unknown,  their  past  lives  and  daily  habits  cast  com- 
pletely aside  for  the  moment,  with  the  putting  on  of  the 
soldier's  knapsack;  or  those  who  would  return  to  their 
homes  to  live  in  continual  anxiety  because  of  this  strong 
tie  of  discipline  and  silence  which  has  drawn  away  the 
others  ?  . .  .  As  for  the  soldiers,  some  were  singing,  some 
laughing,  some  shouted  more  or  less  foolish  jokes,  their 
way  of  expressing  their  emotion;  others,  again,  stood 
grave  and  silent,  drinking  in,  as  it  were,  the  last  details 
of  the  scene,  the  vision  of  the  crowd,  waving  of  hand- 
kerchiefs ;  a  shiver  seemed  to  pass  over  them.  One  saw 
all  mouths  open,  though  no  coherent  words  were  uttered ; 
tears  stood  in  all  eyes,  and  one  could  guess  the  thoughts 
behind  them,  the  sympathy,  the  longing  to  give  help 
and  courage.  Then  with  one  accord  all  the  soldiers  rose 
to  their  feet,  waving  their  rifles  above  their  heads ;  some 
of  them  had  fixed  their  bayonets  also ;  and  a  song  sprang 
from  thousands  of  throats,  and  rolled  and  swelled:  "  Sois 
heureux,  sois  heureux,  O  mon  pays  !  .  .  ." 

M  Good-bye,  Ernest,  good  luck  !  .  .  .  Let  them  have 
it !  .  .  ."  snouted  Potterat,  catching  sight  of  his  son  just 
as  the  train  glided  slowly  out  of  the  station;  then  with 
his  fist  he  dashed  away  his  tears  as  he  watched  it 
disappear  in  the  distance. 

"  He  didn't  see  me.  .  .  .  He  was  singing.  ...  It  doesn't 
matter;  I'm  glad  to  have  seen  him.  .  .  .  I'm  giving  one 
son,  at  any  rate,  to  the  country.  .  .  .  Good  God  !  What 
a  thing  war  is  !  .  .  .  and  to  think  one  can't  go  because 
one's  too  old  !  .  .  .    Well,  I  suppose  I  must  go  back  to 


164  POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR 

that  barrack.  ...  I'm  played  out !  .  .  .  I've  done  my  bit 
in  my  time,  but  now  we  old  ones  are  scrapped,  out  of 
date,  prehistoric.  ..." 

The  station  square  was  quiet  now;  the  August  sun 
poured  down  on  the  dust.  There  was  much  to  think  of 
at  home.  What  is  the  best  thing  to  do  when  one's  country 
is  blockaded,  isolated,  and  when  almost  everything  in 
the  way  of  food,  everything  good,  comes  from  abroad  ? 
In  a  sort  of  panic  Madame  Potterat  went  through  her 
store-cupboards.  Some  pounds  of  sugar,  of  flour,  of 
macaroni,  a  packet  of  chocolate,  some  haricots  and  dried 
peas,  etc.,  .  .  .  not  more  than  enough  to  go  on  with  for 
about  a  couple  of  weeks.  They  must  lay  in  some  stores. 
But  to  buy  anything  it  was  necessary  to  have  some  small 
change;  Potterat  ran  over  to  the  hairdresser's  with  a 
couple  of  bank-notes  for  a  hundred  francs  each.  No 
change  !  He  went  to  the  greengrocer's,  to  the  tobac- 
conist's, to  ten  tobacconists',  and  twenty  cafes,  and 
everywhere  it  was  the  same.  ...  "  Change  a  note  ? 
Absolutely  impossible  !  .  .  ." 

It  began  to  rain  as  Potterat,  tired  out,  took  his  place 
in  a  long  queue  of  people  waiting  outside  the  Cantonal 
Bank.  They  moved  forward  at  the  rate  of  ten  steps  in 
a  quarter  of  an  hour.  The  drippings  from  umbrellas 
trickled  down  people's  necks;  there  was  a  certain  amount 
of  scuffling  and  wrangling. 

"  Can't  you  look  what  you're  doing  ?  .  .  ." 

"  What  are  you  shoving  f or  ?  .  .  ." 

"  You're  shoving  too  !" 

"  Well,  you  stepped  on  my  feet !" 

When  at  last,  at  about  ten  minutes  to  eleven,  Potterat 
had  reached  the  bank  counter,  and  had  recognized  his 
friend  Boulenaz  behind  the  grille,  he  felt  all  right. 

"  How  d'ye  do,  Boulenaz  ?  .  .  .  What  a  crush  !  .  .  . 
There  are  people  from  here  to  Montbenon  almost.  ..." 

Nervous  and  overwrought,  Boulenaz  snapped  out : 


POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR  165 

"  I've  no  time  to  talk  to-day.  ..." 

"  Oh,  all  right !  .  .  .  Give  me  change,  please,  for  these 
two  hundred-franc  notes  .  .  .  ." 

"  We  are  only  changing  fifty- franc  notes." 

"  Go  on  !  .  .  .     What  are  you  talking  about  ?  .  .  ." 

"  Those  are  the  orders.  .  .  .  Fifty-franc  notes  only " 

"  Damn  it  all !  .  .  .  Are  you  going  to  starve  the  whole 
population  ?  .  .  ." 

"  No  need  for  anyone  to  starve  who  has  fifty  francs. ..." 

Sticking  to  his  point,  though  with  inward  qualms, 
Potterat  repeated: 

"  Boulenaz,  don't  be  an  idiot !  .  .  ." 

Boulenaz  threw  a  hasty  glance  round  and  pushed  over 
to  him  twenty  five-franc  pieces,  hiding  them  under  his 
hand. 

"  There  you  are.  .  .  .  Don't  tell  anyone.  .  .  .  Next, 
please!  .  .  .  'Change  a  thousand-franc  note?'  Im- 
possible !  Absolutely  impossible !  Fifty  .  .  .  not  a 
franc  more  !" 

"  But  I  was  told.  .  .  ." 

"  Fifty  !  .  .  .     Next,  please  !" 

Madame  Potterat  had  impressed  upon  her  husband  that 
on  his  way  back  he  was  to  buy  all  he  could  in  the  way 
of  provisions.  "  Never  mind  what  it  is,"  she  said,  M  as 
long  as  we  can  eat  it."  So  he  took  his  place  in  another 
queue  outside  a  grocer's  shop.  The  police  were  lining 
up  the  people  in  twos,  old  men,  children,  stout  matrons, 
all  armed  with  receptables  of  one  sort  or  another — 
bags,  baskets,  fruit  panniers,  empty  boxes,  etc.  Here 
again  there  was  a  certain  amount  of  squabbling. 

"  Keep  your  place,  there  !  .  .  .   I'm  before  you  !  .  .  ." 

"  I've  a  family  of  ten  at  home.  ..." 

"  I  can't  help  that !  .  .  .  I'm  sorry,  but  everyone  has 
his  rights  !  .  .  ." 

"  Don't  shove  like  that !  .  .  .   Such  manners  !" 

"  That's  all  right.     I  wasn't  talking  to  you  !  .  .  ." 


166  POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR 

When  Potterat  returned,  out  of  breath,  with  about 
four  pounds  of  macaroni,  and  the  news  that  the  shops 
were  besieged,  his  wife  sat  down  overcome  with  fright. 

"  They  say  that  the  Italians  are  called  out  too,"  she 
said.  "  One  of  the  clerks  at  the  railway  told  Madame 
Bosset  this  morning.  We  are  surrounded.  We  shall  die 
of  hunger." 

Potterat  himself  was  rather  depressed. 

"  My  word  !  It  isn't  a  nice  outlook  !  .  .  .  I'll  tell  you 
what  we'll  do  !  ■  Little  streams  feed  great  rivers/  .  .  . 
We'll  each  go  different  ways,  you  and  I  and  Carlo,  and 
we'll  buy  what  we  can,  each  of  us.  .  .  .  Then  we'll  bring 
back  what  we've  got,  and  start  again.  .  .  .  You'll  see  how 
we  shall  be  received !  like  dogs.  Nobody  wants  your 
custom  now." 

At  half-past  two,  therefore,  Carlo  set  out  with  a 
basket;  at  three  o'clock  his  mother  went  off,  with  a 
rush  basket  on  her  arm  ;  finally  Potterat  emerged,  with 
a  string  bag  in  his  hand,  and  another  in  his  coat 
pocket.  And  lo,  from  every  door  were  coming  out 
people  with  baskets,  with  wallets,  with  string  bags. 
They  glanced  at  each  others'  receptacles,  evidently  with 
disapproval  of  the  more  capacious  ones.  Steadily, 
smilingly,  Potterat  bore  the  glances  thrown  upon  him. 
He  seemed  to  say,  "  Yes,  it's  Potterat.  ...  I  have  devoted 
myself  for  thirty  years  to  protecting  the  public.  I  have 
a  good  right  now  to  claim  my  share  of  nourishment  .  .  . 
and  there's  a  good  deal  of  me  to  be  nourished." 

The  better-known  groceries  displayed  the  one  word 
'  Closed  !'  without  any  further  explanations.  They  had 
rolled  down  the  iron  shutters,  and  the  proprietor 
appeared  at  an  upstairs  window  of  one  shop  to  shout 
to  the  crowd  which  still  persisted  in  knocking  at  the 
closed  doors : 

"  It's  no  use  knocking  !  .  .  .     I'm  sold  out !" 

"I'm  not  such  a  fool !"  thought  Potterat  to  himself. 


POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR  167 

"  I'll    go    to    some    of    the    small    shops    in    outlying 
districts.  ..." 

But  there  also  there  were  the  same  crowds  of  bare- 
headed women,  who  regarded  this  big  man,  an  obvious 
stranger  to  the  neighbourhood,  with  no  very  great  favour. 
"  Some  people  have  cheek,"  said  someone  in  a  loud  voice. 

'We  belong  to  the  same  country,  Madame,"  replied 
Potterat  quite  gently.  "  I  pay  my  taxes,  I  have  a  son 
and  a  son-in-law  at  the  front.  Under  these  circum- 
stances, I  think  I  have  a  perfect  right  to  look  after 
myself.  ...  I'm  not  asking  for  any  more  than  my  share. 
.  .  .  It's  the  Boches  who  are  to  blame  for  all  this,  and 
not  the  French.  ..." 

The  vicious  emphasis  he  laid  on  the  word  '  Boche  ' 
showed  a  somewhat  scant  regard  for  the  convention  of 
neutrality.  This  way  of  looking  at  the  matter  appealed 
to  the  crowd. 

!<  To  bring  about  such  a  war  as  this  ...  in  the  twentieth 
century!  .  .  ."  said  one. 

"  Well,  God  has  a  good  excuse  for  sending  down  his 
lightnings  on  them  now  !  ..."  said  another. 

'  To  kill  millions  of  men  .  .  .  why  ?  .  .  .  My  God,  why  ? 
...  If  an  ordinary  man  commits  murder,  he  is  hanged 
for  it.  Then  what  ought  to  be  the  punishment  for  those 
who  have  organized  this  massacre  ?  .  .  ." 

"  To  let  them  sit  for  thirty-two  thousand  years  upon 
a  high  current  electric  wire  !  .  .  ."  said  Potterat,  turning 
to  the  grocer's  wife,  a  fat  woman  with  flaxen  hair. 

"  My  wife  sent  me,"  he  explained.  "  '  Go  where  you 
like,'  she  said  to  me,  '  but  don't  come  back  without  some 
food.'  .  .  .  And  I  had  to  obey  her.  ...  If  these  other 
ladies  object  very  much,  I  must  give  in,  but  really 
my  wife  didn't  know  where  to  turn  .  .  .  and  I  have 
been  trying  to  get  something  for  more  than  an  hour.  .  .  . 
Everywhere  I  go  it  is  the  same  thing.  ,.  .  .  My  word,  we 
are  having  a  nice  time  !  .  .  ." 


168  POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR 

"  And  what  about  me,  I  should  like  to  know  I"  inter- 
upted  a  woman.  "  My  husband  has  had  to  go  off  to  the 
frontier,  and  I  am  left  with  five  children  to  feed  and  look 
after  .  .  .  and  fine  appetites  they  have,  too  !"  And 
shaking  one  of  the  five  by  the  shoulder,  she  added:  "  Do 
you  hear  ?  You  mustn't  come  worrying  the  life  out  of 
me  for  halfpennies  any  more.  ...  I  say,  do  you  think  this 
war  is  going  to  last  very  long  ?  ..." 

"  My  word  !  I  couldn't  tell  you.  .  .  .  But  there  are 
something  like  ten  millions  of  men  to  kill.  With  the  best 
will  in  the  world,  that'll  take  some  time.  ...  A  kicking 
horse  is  a  nasty  brute,  but  I  ask  you,  what  sort  of  a  man 
is  it  who  lets  loose  on  the  world  such  a  war  as  this  ?  .  .  ." 
'  You're  quite  right,  Monsieur,"  said  the  grocer's  wife. 

Potterat  walked  off  in  triumph  with  ten  pounds  of  rice. 

Encouraged  by  his  success  here,  Potterat  penetrated 
by  a  private  door  into  another  shop  where  a  shopman 
was  throwing  packets  about  apparently  at  random 
amongst  the  crowd.  The  proprietor  of  the  shop,  a  thin 
little  man,  overwrought  and  irritable,  in  shabby  slippers, 
was  shouting  at  regular  intervals:  "  If  everybody  speaks 
at  once,  we  shall  never  get  finished.  ...  Hi !  you  big 
fellow  there  !  W7hat  do  you  want  ?"  The  '  big  fellow  ' 
addressed  was  Potterat.  As  soon  as  he  had  been  served 
with  six  pounds  of  semolina,  he  asked  for  some  macaroni. 
.  .  .  "  No,  no,  it's  no  use,  the  next  one  !  .  .  ."  Outside, 
there  was  a  pushing,  shoving  mass  of  people  with  down- 
cast faces,  and  again  angry  glances  were  thrown  on  full 
baskets  by  the  owners  of  empty  ones. 

When  Potterat  returned,  proudly  laden  with  his  sixteen 
pounds  of  foodstuffs,  his  wife  was  lying  down. 

"I'm  simply  dead  tired  !  .  .  ."  she  said.  "  I've  been 
to  eight  shops,  and  I  couldn't  get  anything  at  any  of 
them." 

"  And  you,  Carlo  ?     What  luck  ?" 

Proudly,  the  boy  exhibited  a  thick  parcel — twelve 
pounds  of  chocolate. 


POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR  169 

'*  They  told  me  this  was  very  nourishing.  ..." 

Potterat  felt  himself  truly  the  head  of  the  family, 
responsible  for  their  welfare. 

"  Don't  worry  !  .  .  .  To-morrow  morning  I'll  do  another 
round.  ..." 

The  next  day,  he  betook  himself  to  the  shop  of  a  seeds- 
man, with  whom  they  had  dealt  for  some  years  for  their 
fowl  food,  etc.  But  what  a  change !  Where  formerly 
there  had  been  pleasant  faces,  and  rows  of  neat  drawers, 
now  all  was  confusion,  and  two  men,  one  red  and  the  other 
pale,  gesticulated  wildly,  both  trying  to  talk  at  once. 

"  Maize  ?  .  .  .  Neither  for  gold  nor  silver.  .  .  .  We  have 
nothing  left.  .  .  .  Absolutely  sold  out.  .  .  .  The  hotels, 
you  see,  the  hotels  have  bought  up  everything.  ..." 

"  The  hotels !  .  .  .  Oh'o !  So  you're  feeding  the 
foreigners,  hey  ?  .  .  .  And  what  about  the  Vaudois  ?  .  .  ." 

"  One  hasn't  time  to  ask  for  birth  certificates." 
■  You  recognize  me,  however.  ...    I  don't  look  like  a 
Brazilian,  do  I  ?" 

"  Certainly  not,  but  all  the  same,  I  can't  make  maize 
out  of  wood.  Good  Heavens  !  We've  had  such  a  time  of  it 
here  for  the  last  two  days.  ...  If  it  goes  on  much  longer 
we'll  be  in  the  asylum,  and  half  the  population  too.  ..." 

The  question  was  where  to  search.  .  .  .    He  went  to 
Allaz,  the  grocer's.     '  Closed.'     On  to  the  old  baker's  at 
the  corner. 
.  "  Have  you  any  flour  ?" 

The  old  woman  went  into  the  store  at  the  back  of  the 
shop,  but  in  a  moment  she  rushed  back  again,  like  a 
frightened  wasp. 

"  Good  Heavens  !  The  baker  tells  me  that  they  have 
got  across  the  Rhine  .  .  .  that  they  are  righting  near 
Schaffhausen.     That  their  cavalry  are  at  Zurich  !  .  .  ." 

"  Really  !  You  don't  say  so  !  .  .  .  Well,  give  me  the 
flour,  please.  ..." 

"  I  can  only  give  you  four  pounds.  You'll  have 
to  make  that  last.  .  .  .     It's  all  I've  got.  ..." 


170  POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR 

She  cut  the  string  of  the  parcel  with  a  sharp  snap,  and 
cast  a  glassy  eye  on  the  clock. 

"  Some  people  say  that  the  French  are  at  Vallorbe, 
and  that  to-morrow  they'll  be  at  Lausanne.  ..." 

"  At  Vallorbe  ?  .  .  .  Do  you  really  think  they  can  get 
across  the  Jura  as  easily  as  one  climbs  a  fence  ?  .  .  .  Who 
told  you  that  ?  .  .  ." 

"A  lady." 

"  Tell  her  to  go  and  put  on  a  plaster.  It's  the  Bel- 
gians they're  walking  over.  ..." 

"  Oh,  that's  not  so  bad  !" 

'  You  see,  I've  been  thirty  years  in  the  Police,  and  I 
know  pretty  well  what's  going  on." 

"  Oh,  thank  you,  sir.  You  have  relieved  my  mind  a 
lot.  .  .  .  Really,  I  scarcely  know  what  I'm  doing.  And 
people  are  so  trying.  Just  now  a  lady  asked  me  if  my 
rolls  were  quite  fresh.  I  said  to  her,  '  Madame,  go  and 
ask  the  Germans  if  my  rolls  are  fresh.'  " 

Moreover,  the  prevailing  anxiety  and  irritability 
affected  even  the  people  in  their  own  homes.  When  night 
fell,  drawing  its  veil  of  sombre  mystery  over  the  world, 
Madame  Potterat  closed  the  shutters.  In  the  courtyard 
below,  some  little  rascals  were  playing  at  war,  bands  of 
them  rushing  wildly  about,  shouting  "  Here  they  are  ! 
Bang  !     Bang  !" 

"  I  simply  can't  stand  it !"  moaned  Madame  Potterat. 

Potterat  opened  a  window,  and  the  shutters :  ; 

"  Carlo  !  .  .  .  Stop  those  silly  games  at  once.  They 
upset  your  mother.  Ha !  There's  someone  ringing. 
Who  can  it  be  at  this  hour  ?" 

"  Oh,  don't  open,  David  !  .  .  ." 

"  What  ?  .  .  .  Nonsense  !  A  man  who  can  spend  the 
night  in  the  Cathedral  isn't  afraid  of  anything.  ..." 

It  was  the  little  grocer  with  the  down-at-heel  slippers. 
He  threw  some  packets  on  the  table  in  the  kitchen,  and 
went  off  again  without  a  word,  his  mouth  open,  forgetting 
to  close  the  door  after  him. 


POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR  171 

"  Another  ten  pounds  of  vermicelli  and  six  pounds  of 
rice.  .  .  .  Good  !  We  are  all  right.  .  .  .  But  how  hot  it 
is  to-night !  .  .  .    Open  that  window  again  for  a  bit.  ..." 

"  Oh  no,  David,  I  beg  of  you.  ..." 

"  Oh  well,  then,  I'll  go  outside.  .  .  ." 

Potterat  paced  up  and  down  his  little  garden  a  hundred 
times  and  more.  A  cat  fled  through  the  bushes.  The 
full  moon  shed  its  blue  light  on  everything.  Down  under 
the  orchard  trees,  some  paths  shone  silvery  in  the  moon- 
light, others  lay  in  shadow;  over  all  was  the  indefinable 
sadness  of  safety  trembling  on  the  verge  of  tragedy.  .  .  . 
The  whistle  of  a  newspaper  boy  broke  the  silence.  .  .  . 
Standing  on  the  pavement,  Potterat  read:  '  Hamburg 
bombarded  by  the  British  Fleet !'  He  gave  a  sigh. 
"  Well,  that's  something  done  !" 

Some  days  later,  towards  the  end  of  the  afternoon, 
Potterat  said: 

"  It's  as  hot  in  here  as  if  one  were  sitting  on  a  stove. 
Suppose  we  go  out  for  a  little  while,  and  get  aired  !" 

They  walked  down  to  the  Lake  by  a  narrow  path.  The 
sun  was  setting  in  a  red  glow:  the  Lake,  no  longer  dotted 
with  gay,  beflagged  little  boats,  slept  under  the  calm  of 
the  summer  evening.  On  the  other  side  of  the  water  lay 
Savoy. 

"Just  to  think  of  what  may  be  happening  on  the  other 
side  of  the  Lake  !"  said  Potterat.  "  Here  the  men  have 
gone  out;  they  are  ready  for  anything  and  everything, 
but  still  they  are  waiting.  .  .  .  Over  there  it's  a  fiery 
furnace.  .  .  .  Many  of  these  Savoyards  have  already 
fallen.  Their  wives  may  reap  and  rake  and  mow :  but  in 
vain  will  they  watch  the  turning  of  the  road  to  see  their 
husbands  come  home  again.  .  .  .  This  lovely  evening, 
that  beautiful  sunset  sky,  this  corner,  so  like  a  Paradise 
of  peace,  all  this  must  make  them  sick  at  heart.  ... 
Don't  you  think  so  ?" 

"  Who  knows  ?  .  .  ."  said  Madame  Potterat,  a  little 


172  POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR 

ashamed.  '*  Perhaps  they  are  taking  it  all  more  calmly 
than  we  are." 

"  Upon  my  word  !  .  .  .  We  do  seem  to  have  rather  lost 
our  heads  these  first  days." 

"  Is  it  any  wonder  ?  .  .  .  It  was  so  absolutely  unex- 
pected." 

"  That's  where  we  were  wrong.  We  know  what  men 
are  ...  we  ought  to  have  been  more  wide  awake.  On 
the  surface  there's  a  lot  of  talk  about  peace  and  harmony, 
brotherhood,  the  good  God,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing; 
but  in  reality  it's  roguery,  selfishness,  war,  atrocities. 
War  is  everywhere;  under  the  leaves,  in  the  sky,  under- 
ground, and  in  the  hearts  of  people.  Things  may  look 
peaceful  outwardly,  but  underneath  there  is  always  war. 
.  .  .  Cats  eat  birds,  the  birds  eat  caterpillars,  the  cater- 
pillars eat  leaves,  the  leaves  overshadow  and  kill  the 
plants.  ...  I  have  long  felt  that  we  were  sleeping  on  the 
edge  of  a  precipice.  .  .  .  There  were  some  among  us  who 
sang  the  Ranz  des  V aches.  .  .  .  But  there  were  also  those 
who  were  undermining  their  neighbours,  dabbling  in 
foreign  shares,  those  who  are  so  much  for  economic  pro- 
gress that  in  the  end  the  heart  is  subject  to  the  purse. 
The  people  feel  that.  But  even  the  people  are  spoilt 
nowadays  with  luxury.  The  days  are  gone  when  we 
rushed  to  our  frontiers  for  a  mere  nothing  .  .  .  when  we 
stood  up  to  kings  and  emperors.  To-day  they  present 
us  with  clocks  and  with  photographs,  and  that  keeps  us 
quiet.  Nevertheless,  there's  this  poor  little  Belgium,  a 
neutral  country  like  ourselves,  as  peace-loving  as  we  are, 
gutted  and  devastated.  ..." 

V  Oh,  David,  do  be  quiet !"  implored  Madame  Pot- 
terat,  pointing  with  her  umbrella  to  a  clump  of  acacias 
which  were  quivering  in  the  Lake  breeze.  "  Suppose 
there  should  be  one  of  them  there  !  .  .  ," 

Potterat  brandished  his  cane. 

"  One  what  ?  .  .  .  One  of  which  ?  .  .  .  If  he  doesn't  like 
what  I  say,  let  him  come  out  here  !     I'll  soon  shove  him 


POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR  173 

into  the  Lake  !  What  the  blazes  !  .  .  .  This  is  Switzer- 
land !  ...  we  are  free  !  To  violate  a  treaty  !  To  pillage 
and  murder  an  innocent  people  !  .  .  .  No  one  in  the  world, 
no  one,  will  hinder  me  from  calling  that  a  low-down, 
dirty  trick.  .  .  .  Do  you  hear  ?  .  .  .  No  one  !  .  .  .  Damn 
it  all !  .  .  ." 

"  I  agree  with  you  on  the  whole.  But  all  the  same  one 
doesn't  know  everything.  And  besides,  we  are  neutral. 
It  is  no  business  of  ours." 

"  That's  a  heathen  sort  of  sentiment,"  replied  Potterat. 
"In  that  case  what  good  is  your  religion  ?  .  .  .  What  is 
the  use  of  churches,  and  schools,  of  patriotic  addresses  at 
our  annual  trainings,  of  our  national  motto :  '  One  for  all, 
all  for  one  !'?...  Do  we  mean  a  word  of  it  all,  or  don't 
we  ?  .  .  .  Are  we  utter  hypocrites  or  not  ?  Tell  me  that. 
.  .  .  Are  the  words  justice,  liberty,  brotherhood, 
humanity,  mere  bluff  and  humbug  ?  .  .  .  In  the  Police 
I  was  always  taught  to  arrest  thieves,  to  handcuff  mur- 
derers, and  to  inform  at  once  on  those  who  tampered 
with  contracts.  It  is  a  good  rule,  and  it  holds  just  as 
good  for  international  affairs.  We've  got  to  decide 
whether  we're  going  to  uphold  robbery  or  not.  .  .  .  When 
a  little  peaceful  people  calls  for  help,  it's  no  time  for 
diplomatic  quibbling.  ...  I  have  never  learnt  that  our 
Saviour  said  on  the  Cross :  '  Justice  stops  at  the  frontiers, 
this  is  the  first  and  great  commandment.'  " 

"  Father,"  said  Carlo,  "  what  does  it  mean  to  be 
neutral?" 

"  My  dear,  ask  me  in  what  year  the  world  was  made  ! 
Neutrality  is  a  sort  of  labyrinth;  you  go  in,  but  you  can't 
come  out  again.  A  month  ago  you  were  neutral,  but  you 
didn't  know  it.  Neutrality  is  like  growing  old;  you  don't 
notice  it  until  a  day  comes  when  you  want  to  jump  or 
climb  somewhere,  and  you  find  you  can't  do  it  because 
your  joints  are  stiff." 

"  I  don't  understand  it  at  all." 

"  Well,  it's  like  this:  Suppose  there  is  a  stable,  with 


174  POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR 

some  bulls,  some  horses  and  mules,  and  two  sheep  in  it. 
Naturally,  the  big  animals  quarrel  with  each  other,  bite 
and  kick  and  horn  each  other.  My  word  !  If  the  sheep 
get  a  rap  by  mistake,  they  pretend  to  think  that  it  came 
from  somewhere  else.  In  other  words,  they  profess  them- 
selves neutral.  In  their  hearts  they  have  their  own 
opinion,  but  since  it  is  dangerous  to  express  it  openly, 
they  pretend  to  take  no  notice ;  they  bleat  out  all  sorts  of 
nice  polite  speeches,  they  ring  their  little  bells.  They 
are  just  good  little  beasts  who  take  care  to  keep  very 
close  to  the  walls.  .  .  .  Now,  suppose  the  bull  declares 
one  evening  that  because  he  has  grown  so  fat  he  must 
have  more  room.  He  puts  his  head  down  and  charges. 
The  wood  flies  in  splinters,  and  blood  spurts  out  against 
the  wall.  It  was  the  horse  he  meant  to  go  for,  but  one 
of  the  sheep  happened  to  be  in  the  way,  and  zip  !  .  .  .  the 
poor  thing  is  ripped  up  with  one  blow  of  the  horn.  Now 
what  do  you  think  the  other  sheep  ought  to  do  ?  .  .  .!' 
"  I  should  think  he  would  bleat  with  rage.  ..." 
"  But  then  he  would  no  longer  be  neutral." 
"  Oh,  then  does  being  neutral  mean  that  one  is  to  take 
everything  lying  down  ?" 

"  I  don't  know.  ...  I  can't  understand  it.  .  .  .  My 
own  idea  is  that  in  certain  cases  people  just  efface  them- 
selves from  humanity.  But  it  can't  be  very  clear  since 
they  are  obliged  to  give  lectures  to  explain  it.  .  .  . 
When  I  saw  that  Belgium  had  been  invaded,  treated  with 
contempt,  shelled,  burnt,  insulted,  slandered,  I  expected 
a  protest  from  Switzerland,  some  official  indignation,  a 
cry  of  horror  and  sympathy,  something.  .  .  .  And  there 
was  nothing  !  .  .  .  nothing  .  .  .  nothing  !  .  .  .  Nothing 
but  discussions  and  disputes  in  the  papers.  And  from 
headquarters,  nothing  but  warnings  to  be  quiet,  to  say 
nothing.  One  would  think  that  they  were  all  dead  at 
Berne.  Dead  of  what  ?  .  .  .  not  of  too  much  courage, 
anyhow  !  .  .  .    We  talk  of  William  Tell.  ...    How  many 


POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR  175 

people  nowadays  would  refuse  to  salute  the  hat  ?  .  .  . 
Oh,  it's  been  coming  for  a  long  time.  The  people  have 
grown  soft  from  over- civilization  :  all  these  new- 
fangled things,  tunnels,  hotels,  chocolate,  good  eating, 
white  shoes,  the  best  seats  at  the  play,  kursaals,  folly  in 
three  acts,  trusts,  speculation.  ...  In  the  long-run,  we 
are  tied  and  bound;  we  all  want  to  sell,'  and  we  don't 
want  to  offend  possible  customers.  ..." 

"  But  what  good  could  we  have  done  if  we  had  pro- 
tested ?"  objected  Madame  Potterat. 

"  To  the  Belgians,  no  good  at  all.  But  for  ourselves 
it  would  have  been  good.  To  be  brave  gives  an  in- 
crease of  strength.  ..." 

The  moon,  coming  out  from  behind  the  mountains, 
threw  its  silvery  scarf  over  the  Lake,  checkering  the  earth 
with  its  deep  shadows  and  strange  brilliance.  Madame 
Potterat  suddenly  exclaimed  with  a  start : 

"  Good  Heavens  !  .  .  .  Just  imagine  oneself  in  Belgium, 
and  someone  all  at  once  shouting  '  Here  they  are  !'  .  .  . 
Imagine  seeing  the  horizon  red  from  burning  villages.  .  .  . 
How  dreadful !  .  .  .  I  should  run  away  with  Carlo.  We 
should  run,  and  run,  and  run,  until  we  dropped.  We 
should  hide  in  a  forest.  ..." 

v  Yes,"  replied  Potterat.  "  We  don't  put  ourselves  in 
the  place  of  others  half  enough.  We  live  only  for  our- 
selves. .  .  .  We  entrench  ourselves  behind  our  mountains. 
.  .  .  We  provision  ourselves.  .  .  .  Nevertheless,  in  the 
main  we  are  sound,  there's  not  any  lack  of  heart.  But 
what  we  want  is  someone  to  lead  us,  men  like  Boni- 
vard,  Winkelried,  Davel,  with  whom  honour  and  action 
were  one.  .  .  .  To-day  we  finesse,  and  diplomatize,  but 
there  it  ends,  our  virtue  seems  to  consist  only  in  words. 
. . .  But  there  ! . . .  It's  no  use  talking  ! .  . .  Let's  go  along 
as  far  as  Vidy,  and  see  how  Louise  is  getting  on.  .  .  ." 

The  farm  stood  all  by  itself.  A  lamp  lit  up  the  im- 
mense kitchen.     Bent  over  some  baskets  Louise  was  wash- 


176  POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR 

ing  salad.  Her  face  was  lined  and  drawn  from  fatigue. 
She  described  her  life  to  them :  rising  early,  going  to  bed 
late,  getting  little  real  help  from  a  rough  untrained 
servant,  anxious  about  her  husband,  who  spoke  in  his 
postcards  of  sprains  and  blistered  feet. 

"  Look  here  !."  said  Potterat,  much  moved  by  the  sight 
of  that  lined  and  worried  face,  but  a  little  while  ago  so 
smooth,  "  I  shall  come  down  every  morning  for  a  time, 
and  lend  you  a  hand,  and  every  afternoon  too.  It  will 
be  very  good  for  me,  it'll  take  off  a  little  of  my  fat." 

Louise  thought  at  first  that  he  was  joking,  but  he 
repeated  his  promise  on  leaving,  and  they  parted  on 
excellent  terms.  On  the  way  back,  as  they  were  passing 
the  Cemetery  of  Montoie,  Potterat  began  to  muse  aloud, 
as  he  had  a  habit  of  doing. 

"  Sleep  well,  you  dead.  .  .  .  We  are  sending  you  some 
comrades  now,  young  and  healthy.  .  .  .  You'll  see  them 
soon,  look  out  for  them.  .  .  .  We  are  logical,  I  must  say  ! 
We  spend  hundreds  and  hundreds  to  make  our  schools 
hygienic,  we  fight  against  tuberculosis,  against  typhus, 
against  cancer,  against  phylloxera;  we  wrap  ourselves  in 
cotton-wool,  we  proclaim  ourselves  civilized,  well  dressed, 
good  friends  all  round.  .  .  .  Then  the  trumpets  sound  the 
call  to  arms.  ...  It  is  War  !  .  .  .  And  where  yesterday 
it  was  a  fifty-franc  fine  for  a  blow  of  the  fist,  to-day  it  is 
a  decoration  and  a  Te  Deum  for  him  who  has  killed 
three  thousand  men  in  five  minutes  !  .  .  .  Humanity  ? 
.  .  .  I'm  damned  if  I  can  see  any  meaning  in  the  word  at 
all  now  !  .  .  .  And  why  are  some  walking  about  here  fat 
and  well-liking,  while  other  poor  fellows  are  being  buried 
by  the  light  of  a  lantern,  dragged  along  by  the  feet,  and 
chucked  into  a  hole.  .  .  .  Why  not  we  ?  .  .  .  All  those 
who  are  shot  and  buried  like  that,  are  certainly  as  good 
as  ourselves.  Yet  we  don't  even  protest.  We  go  and 
buy  macaroni !  .  .  .  I  one  of  the  first !  .  .  .  Damn  it 
all,  I  feel  ashamed  of  myself !" 


CHAPTER  VIII 

After  the  storm,  the  calm.     Potterat  sank  into  a  chair 
before  a  cupboard  gorged  with  provisions. 

"  Let's  say  twenty  pounds  of  lentils,  thirty  of  rice, 
forty-four  of  macaroni,  twenty-six  of  maize.  There's  an 
amount  of  solid  nourishment  for  you  !" 

Just  then  Carlo  came  in. 

'  The  boys  at  school  say  there  will  be  nothing  to  eat 
this  winter.     Their  parents  told  them  so." 

"  Perhaps.  In  that  case  there  will  be  a  wholesale 
burying  somewhere  about  the  spring.  That  will  be  rather 
hard  on  you,  my  poor  boy,  you  who  are  growing  so  big." 

"  But  the  cupboard  is  full." 

"  It  certainly  is.  But  in  three  months'  time  it  won't 
be  very  full." 

Feeling  ferocious,  Potterat  unhooked  from  the  wall  his 
old  carbine  that  had  served  him  so  well  for  many  years 
in  shooting  competitions.  He  pretended  to  load  it,  took 
aim  at  an  imaginary  enemy,  and  pulled  the  trigger. 

"  Poum  !  .  .  .     There  you  are  !" 

"  That's  right !  Cripple  yourself  !"  broke  in  Madame 
Potterat.     "  A  lot  of  good  that  will  do  us  !" 

"  Cripple  myself !  .  .  .  I  know  my  little  weapon.  .  .  . 
In  case  of  an  attack  in  force,  I  take  up  my  station  in  the 
cellar.  I  block  the  window  with  mattresses.  And  by 
Heaven  !  I'll  sweep  the  courtyard.  I'll  mow  them  down 
as  they  pass.  I'll  pile  them  up  in  heaps.  I'll  clear  out 
the  corners.  I  could  hold  the  place  for  a  fortnight. 
And  after  that  I'd  escape  by  the  back  gate." 

That  evening,    frightened  by  the  alarming  telegrams 

177  I3 


178  POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR 

in  the  papers,  and  his  imagination  inflamed  by  the 
bloodthirsty  adventures  of  Nick  Carter  (he  devoured  an 
instalment  of  these  each  week),  Carlo  refused  to  sleep 
alone  in  his  room.     He  wailed  feverishly. 

"  All  right  then,  all  right !  We'll  move  your  bed  into 
our  room." 

No  sooner  said  than  done.  Carlo  consented  to  go  to 
bed  under  the  protection  of  the  big  walnut  bedstead. 
But  as  he  still  could  not  sleep,  and  his  eyes  were  fever- 
ishly bright,  his  father  took  down  his  carbine  again  and 
laid  it  on  the  window-sill. 

"  There  now  !  Are  you  satisfied  ?  .  .  .  Just  let  them 
come  now !" 

Carlo  contemplated  the  carbine  whose  murderous  eye 
raked  the  suburbs.  And  presently  he  was  asleep. 
Happy  age  of  childhood  which  passes  at  a  bound  from 
fear  to  perfect  confidence  ! 

Potterat  himself  was  much  longer  in  going  to  sleep. 
It  may  be  that  across  the  ether  that  transmits  the  tragic 
fluids  were  borne  to  his  inner  consciousness  the  cries 
of  mothers,  the  wailing  of  little  children,  the  groans  of 
men  dying  on  the  field  of  battle.  In  the  silence  of  that 
peaceful  summer  night,  Potterat  reviewed  with  a  sort  of 
humiliation  the  little  rules  and  regulations  that  he  had 
indulgently  administered  under  the  auspices  of  the 
Communal  Police.  To  arrest  some  petty  thieves,  to 
summon  people  for  offences  against  the  regulations,  a 
bucket  of  rubbish  forgotten  on  the  pavement,  etc.  .  .  . 
What  ignoble  work  !  Then  he  thought,  almost  with 
terror,  sitting  up  in  his  bed,  of  the  madness  which  was 
hurling  whole  nations  into  the  depths.  He  could  scarcely 
understand  it,  this  simple-hearted  man  who  had  retained 
the  fresh  ideals  of  the  songs  of  his  youth,  the  con- 
viction that  kings  and  governments  were  upright  and 
loyal,  shepherdesses  beautiful  and  chaste,  that  mankind  on 
the  whole  was  good,  except  for  some  little  peccadilloes 


POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR  i79 

here  and  there.  And  here  was  he,  looking  on  at  the 
breakdown  of  laws,  customs,  decrees,  and  regulations,  at 
the  cynical  proclamation  that  might  was  right.  Suddenly 
Potterat  nudged  his  wife  with  his  elbow  and  woke  her  up. 

'  •  Francoise  !  .  .  .  How  can  you  sleep  like  that  while  ten 
millions  of  men  are  killing  each  other,  and  thousands  of 
civilians  are  running  away  across  the  fields  ?  .  .  ." 

"  And  do  you  think  that  my  staying  awake  will  do  any 
good  ?  .  .  ." 

"  Not  the  slightest.  .  .  .     There,  let's  go  to  sleep." 

At  7.39  a.m.  a  whistle  announced  the  approach  of  the 
news-boy.  Carlo  ran  down  to  the  Square  for  a  paper. 
Shortly  afterwards,  sitting  on  the  sofa  in  the  dining-room, 
where  the  trivial  prettiness  of  the  wall-paper  contrasted 
with  the  large  size  of  the  room,  Potterat  read  aloud  the 
official  communiques,  punctuating  them  with  frequent 
exclamations,  in  turn  pitying,  indignant,  and  full  of 
admiration. 

"  Nice  sort  of  life  the  Belgians  are  having !  .  .  .  Men 
are  lined  up  against  a  wall  and  shot  without  any  attempt 
at  a  trial,  simply  for  defending  their  own  soil  .  .  .  brought 
down  like  starlings  in  vintage-time.  ..." 

Potterat  presently  rose,  red,  perspiring,  and  panting 
with  anger,  and  stumped  round  the  table  in  his  excitement. 

!<  They  are  asleep,  our  Government !  ..."  he  said, 
"  asleep  !  .  .  .  Ever  since  the  1st  August,  they  seem  to 
have  been  dozing,  with  cotton-wool  plugged  in  their  ears. 
My  goodness !  And  to  think  that  it  is  the  same  people 
who  have  laid  waste  Belgium  and  Luxemburg  who 
guarantee  our  neutrality  !  .  .  .  And  we  hold  our  tongues 
as  if  it  were  all  quite  natural  .  .  .  but  to  keep  silence  now 
is  like  making  oneself  an  accomplice.  If  this  sort  of 
thing  goes  on  much  longer,  I'll  write  a  protest  myself, 
and  publish  it  in  the  Feuille  d'Avis.  .  .  .  This  silence 
is  too  much  for  me.  .  .  .    It's  all  humbug  what  they  tell 


i8o  POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR 

us  about  Switzerland  if  we  are  to  grovel  in  the  grass 
directly  we  see  a  bird  of  prey  passing  to  and  fro  in  the 
sky.  .  .  .  Oh,  there's  no  one  like  us  !  .  .  .  We  may  soon 
have  to  add  '  Fortunately  V  .  .  ." 

"  David,  do  be  careful !  .  .  ."  begged  Madame  Potterat. 

"  No,  I  won't !  I  feel  that  I  should  like  to  go  up  on 
the  roof  and  shout  all  this  towards  the  north — only  the 
truth,  after  all,  though  I  suppose  I  should  be  shut  up 
for  five  years.  ..." 

For  Potterat  was  beginning  to  be  suspicious.  ...  Of 
what  ?  .  .  .  He  could  not  have  told  exactly.  Very  often 
he  uttered  words  as  obscure  as  his  suspicions.  In  every 
stranger  he  saw  a  spy.  Fortunately,  Schmid  wrote  from 
the  frontier  that  the  spirit  of  the  army  was  excellent ;  he 
had  received  the  cake,  the  chocolate,  the  flannel.  The 
heat  made  him  terribly  thirsty.  His  feet  were  now  all 
right.  They  had  killed  nothing  up  to  the  present  but  a 
hare  in  one  of  the  forests  of  the  Jura.  They  sang  while 
they  were  on  the  march  to  make  the  way  seem  shorter, 
etc.  .  .  . 

Thinking  of  this  letter,  and  of  many  other  things, 
Potterat,  kneeling  on  a  sack,  weeded  Louise's  garden,  for 
he  went  down  to  Vidy  every  morning  now  to  help  his 
daughter,  and  help  was  certainly  needed. 

All  round  a  peaceful  silence  reigned,  broken  only  by 
an  occasional  bark  from  the  dog,  when  a  stray  pedestrian 
passed  the  farm,  and  vanished  from  sight  between  the 
poplars  bordering  the  white  road.  Yawning,  and  dragging 
his  chain,  the  dog  would  then  return  to  his  kennel.  .  .  . 
Everything  spoke  of  peace,  the  beautiful  view,  the  wide 
stretch  of  clear  blue  sky,  the  joy  of  nature  in  the  growing 
plants  and  laughing  flowers.  .  .  .  Yet  all  the  time,  beyond 
the  smiling  slopes,  beyond  the  vineyards,  the  orchards, 
the  Lake,  Potterat  saw  far  other  scenes.  His  heart,  in 
spite  of  a  certain  outward  roughness  of  manner,  had 
always  held  wonderful  depths  of  tenderness  for  little 


POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR  181 

children,  for  those  who  looked  up  to  him  in  trust  and 
confidence,  for  the  old  and  feeble,  and  for  the  poor  and 
weak.  And  he  dreaded  the  sight  of  tears  because  they 
moved  him  too  much.  So  in  spite  of  the  glory  of  this 
beautiful  summer  day,  Potterat  remained  grave  and 
quiet.  He  felt  sad  at  heart,  as  he  peopled  that  solitude 
with  scenes  of  war,  saw  women  sitting  amongst  the 
smoking  ruins  of  their  homes,  corpses  lying  near  those 
silver-leaved  willows,  imagined  smoke  with  flickering 
tongues  of  flame.  .  .  . 

Full  of  indignation,  the  good  man  went  on  doggedly 
with  his  weeding,  digging  his  fat  fingers  into  the  hot  earth, 
and  grunting  with  the  effort.  Against  the  possible  invader 
he  launched  in  imagination  his  country's  battalions;  ^e 
ran  and  fought  with  them.  .  .  .  Forward  !  .  .  .  Fire  !  .  .  . 
Hurrah  !  .  .  .  Fighting,  groaning,  dying :  what  matters  it 
what  happens,  if  one  is  with  those  who  are  suffering,  with 
those  who  are  fighting  for  right,  and  honour,  and  country. 
...  A  cloud  passed  over  the  sky :  the  vision  faded.  Be- 
fore his  eyes  there  lay  only  the  fields  of  lush  grass,  the 
walnut-trees,  the  Lake  so  exquisitely  blue  behind  the 
waving  curtain  of  reeds,  and  a  sailing-boat  with  one  white 
and  one  red  sail  motionless  on  the  horizon. 

In  face  of  this  peaceful  beauty,  Potterat' s  heart  went 
out  to  his  country.  This  dear  land !  He  loved  it  so 
much.  His  own  Canton  was  almost  as  dear  to  him  as 
his  wife.  And  Switzerland's  history,  more  beautiful  than 
any  legend.  Tyrants  driven  out  at  the  halberd's  point, 
rocks  hurled  down  the  mountain-side:  Charles  the  Bold 
flying  like  smoke  before  the  east  wind.  .  .  .  And  of 
course  William  Tell  with  his  apple  and  his  crossbow,  and 
Winkelried  receiving  the  spears  in  his  breast,  and  Nicolas 
de  Flue,  and  Pestalozzi.  .  .  .  And  all  its  beautiful,  simple, 
peaceful  life,  the  little  excursions,  the  songs,  ...  the  going 
off  on  Sundays  to  vote,  and  to  smoke  cigars  with  his 
friends  .  .  .  and  the  National  fete  days;  flags  floating  from 


182  POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR 

all  the  church  towers,  the  National  flag,  the  Cantonal 
flag,  the  Communal  flag  .  .  .  and  bands,  processions, 
luncheons,  speeches. . . .  The  cheers  that  rang  out  while  an 
orator  drained  his  glass,  after  saying  that  the  Swiss  fear 
no  one,  that  the  blood-red  of  their  flag  signifies  sacrifice, 
that  they  will  always  be  ready  to  uphold  justice  and  right. 
The  crowd  rises  as  one  man,  and,  holding  their  glasses  in 
their  hands,  they  renew  their  ancient  oath  never  to  submit 
to  a  foreign  yoke,  and  to  bow  the  knee  to  God  alone.  .  .  . 
Then  they  go  back  to  their  homes,  and  before  they  go  to 
sleep  that  night,  they  thank  God  that  they  are  Swiss.  .  .  . 

And  now  to  think  that  two  little  countries,  her  sisters 
in  neutrality,  had  been  invaded  in  defiance  of  signed  trea- 
ties ;  that  towns  had  been  burnt  and  men  shot  because  they 
had  defended  their  native  soil  with  the  courage  of  despair; 
the  whole  soul  of  a  nation  trampled  underfoot,  and  the 
heavy  silence  of  the  tomb  left  weighing  on  their  hearts. 
And  we  ?  .  .  .  Hush,  be  quiet !  Don't  say  anything. 
.  .  .  We  can't  do  anything  !  .  .  .  What  ?  .  .  .  No,  no  ! 
Much  better  not  to  say  a  word,  not  to  draw  attention  to 
ourselves  !  .  .  .  And  what  are  we  provisioning  ourselves 
against  ?  .  .  .  Oh,  we  are  the  best  of  friends  !  .  .  .  (Some 
sugar.)  I  never  said  anything  !  .  .  .  (Some  macar- 
oni.) I  am  a  friend  to  all  the  world  !  .  .  .  (Some 
coal.)  And  if  some  more  sincere  citizen  talks  too  freely 
they  very  soon  find  means  of  keeping  Trim  quiet.  ..  .  . 

Then,  too,  what  endless  discussions !  Such  senti- 
ments !  *  We  speak  three  languages,  and  these  nations 
all  round  us,  on  whom  we  must  depend,  are  fighting. 
Naturally  our  sympathies  go  out  to  this  one  and  to  that 
one,  but  we  can  only  exist  as  a  nation  by  keeping  neutral, 
whatever  happens  and  whatever  they  do.  When  the  storm 
is  past,  later  on,  we  shall  talk  it  over  and  decide  what  was 

right  and  just.  By-and-by Just  now  there  is  too  much 

smoke,  too  much  uproar  .  .  .  people  are  too  excited.  .  .  .' 

Poor  Potterat,  who  had  always  believed,  simple  soul 


POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR  183 

that  he  was,  that  there  existed  something  above  and  be- 
yond these  three  languages,  above  these  natural  sympa- 
thies, something  which  was  national  unity,  and  the 
instinctive,  spontaneous  hatred,  welling  up  from  every  true 
Swiss  soul,  for  the  brutal  might  that  laughs  at  right  ! 

However,  it  was  necessary,  apparently,  to  keep  quiet 
if  they  did  not  wish  to  endanger  the  unity  of  the  country. 
Potterat  did  not  understand  it  at  all.  He  looked  for 
his  ideal  Switzerland,  the  Switzerland  of  the  school  and 
college  songs,  the  Switzerland  who  loves  her  mountains, 
her  flowers,  her  rushing  torrents,  who  responds  at  once 
to  the  cry  of  liberty,  for  herself  and  for  others.  He  knew 
she  still  lived.  .  .  .  But  she  seemed  to  be  fettered.  ...  By 
whom  ?  .  .  .   By  what  ?  .  .  .  What  did  she  fear  ?  .  .  . 

He  rose  from  his  weeding,  and  straightened  his  aching 
back,  and  once  more  he  gazed  out  over  the  smiling 
meadows,  over  the  blue  surface  of  the  Lake  just  seen 
above  the  bushes,  to  that  fair  province  of  Savoy,  where 
so  many  men  had  already  laid  down  their  lives  in  defence 
of  something  more  than  even  the  safety  of  their  own  pro- 
vince, or  of  their  own  country,  ...  in  defence  of  an  ideal. 

"  And  we  ?"  thought  Potterat.  "  Well,  here  we  are 
every  one  of  us  muzzled.  .  .  .  '  Leave  the  country  if  you 
don't  like  things,  but  we're  not  strong  enough  to  risk 
speaking  out  freely.'  ...  It  was  Corbaz  who  said  that  to 
me  the  other  day  .  .  .  to  me  !  .  .  .  I  did  think  in  those 
first  days  that  there  was  only  a  bit  of  dry  rot  among  the 
branches,  but  now  I  begin  to  think  that  the  roots  are 
rotten  too." 

Louise  called  him  for  the  ten  o'clock  repast.  They  all 
trooped  into  the  cool  dark  kitchen— Ulrich,  the  man  from 
Schwytz;  Henri,  from  Bioley;  the  young  Louis,  his  chin 
stained  red  with  raspberries;  and  Potterat  himself,  per- 
spiring freely,  and  glowing  with  life.  They  helped  them- 
selves to  bread,  and  poured  out  their  coffee.  Ulrich  ate 
and  drank  with  his  elbows  squared  on  the  table;   he 


184  POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR 

interrupted  himself  only  to  catch  a  fly  that  had  perched 
on  his  hairy  arm,  squash  it,  and  throw  it  under  the  table. 
Henri  remarked  with  an  innocent  air,  that  he  only  wished 
he   could  do    as   much    to   some    other   people,   which 
provoked   a  surly  response  from    Ulrich.      At  once  a 
discussion   began,   which  soon    threatened    to    become 
disagreeable. 
"  Ah !  if  only  they  will  leave  us  alone,"  said  Louise. 
"  My  word,  you're  not  hard  to  please  !"  jeered  Potterat. 
"  But  one  can't  give  up  altogether  the  right  to  say  what 
one  thinks." 
Then  as  Ulrich  sneered: 

"  What  are  you  sneering  at,  you  ?  .  .  .     You're  Swiss, 
aren't  you  ?     You  have  sworn  to  uphold  justice  ?  .  .  . 
When  a  little  nation  is  invaded  and  pillaged,  it  is  your 
duty  to  speak  out  and  protest.  ..." 
"  Was  WiUiam  TeU  a  Vaudois  ?" 
"  I  begin  to  think  so.  .  .  ." 
"  Damn  it  all !  .  .  ." 

There  was  a  silence.  Opening  a  mouth  filled  with  huge 
teeth,  Henri  stuffed  an  enormous  piece  of  plum  cake  into 
it,  then,  as  soon  as  he  could  speak,  he  said: 

"  What's  the  good  of  worrying  yourselves  ?  .  .  .  What 
do  you  want  to  talk  about  the  war  f or  ?  .  .  .  Can't  you 
eat  your  food  and  not  bother  ?  .  .  ." 

Potterat  returned  to  his  work.  Some  time  passed, 
when  suddenly  Louise  appeared  beside  him,  holding  up 
her  hands  in  despair. 

"  Father,  he's  gone  !  .  .  ." 
"  Who?" 

"  Ulrich.  .  .  .  He  left  a  note  on  the  kitchen  table.  He 
complains  that  we  don't  understand  him,  that  we  insult 
William  Tell.  .  .  .  Well,  anyhow,  he's  gone,  bag  and 
baggage." 

"  That's  a  pity.  Evidently,  some  people  can't  stand 
a  joke.     It  depends  very  much  on  where  you  were  born 


POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR  185 

and  brought  up.  No  doubt  it's  wiser  to  keep  quiet. 
Well,  the  question  is,  who  is  going  to  milk  the  cows 
now  ? .  .  .  That  Ulrich  had  a  devil  of  a  temper,  but  he  was 
a  good  worker,  and  capable.  .  .  .  Well,  I  must  go  and 
try  to  get  someone  for  you  at  the  registry  office.  ..." 

All  the  able-bodied  young  men  being  on  the  frontier, 
Potterat  could  only  get  an  Italian,  a  mason  out  of  work, 
who  assured  him  that  he  had  done  a  great  deal  of  farm 
labour.  This  Italian,  Donato  his  name,  did  not,  un- 
fortunately, hit  it  off  with  Henri.  He  was  a  little  man, 
with  a  big  head,  clear  grey  eyes,  animated  gestures  and 
fluent  speech,  and  he  did  not  in  any  way  conform  to  the 
accepted  standards  of  work  in  Bioley.  He  mowed  too 
closely,  and  he  dug  too  deep.  .  .  .  Henri,  nowthe  head  man, 
declared  that  he  was  rude,  disrespectful,  overbearing. 

"  Do  you  know  how  to  milk  ?"  asked  Henri. 

"  I  had  two  goats  in  Italy." 

Henri  gave  a  shout  of  laughter. 

"  Come  along,  then,  and  see  if  you  can  milk  cows." 

Donato  gazed  respectfully  at  the  enormous  beasts  that 
the  Bioley  man,  sitting  on  a  stool,  was  milking  one  after 
the  other,  his  forehead  leaning  against  the  side  of  the 
beast,  which  was  bedaubed  with  manure. 

"  Now  you  try.  .  .  .  Not  so  hard.  .  .  .  Gently,  and  try 
to  do  it  in  time.  .  .  .  Not  with  your  hands  ...  with  your 
thumbs  more.  ..." 

All  this  time  Potterat  was  cleaning  out  the  stable  with 
a  creaking  barrow.  With  his  trousers  turned  well  up,  his 
shirt-sleeves  rolled  up  to  the  shoulders,  and  the  per- 
spiration pouring  down  his  cheeks  like  rain  on  the  petals 
of  a  peony,  Potterat  strained  and  bent  as  he  came  to 
the  plank  reared  against  the  manure  heap.  Before 
overturning  the  barrow,  he  paused  a  moment,  then  with  a 
tightening  of  the  muscles,  an  effort  of  the  loins  and  a 
sudden  throwing  out  of  the  chest,  the  thing  was  done, 
and  Potterat  came  down  the  plank  again  with  the  gravity 


i86  POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR 

of  an  official,  the  prudence  of  a  good  citizen  who  has  a 
respect  for  his  clothes,  but  the  practised  ease  of  the 
born  peasant. 

"  Don't  work  so  hard,  father,"  called  out  Louise,  from 
the  far  end  of  the  courtyard. 

"  Oh,  never  fear  !  I'm  not  played  out  yet.  I  like  to 
work  when  I'm  working,  eat  when  I'm  eating,  sleep  when 
I'm  sleeping.  .  .  .   What  do  you  think,  Donato  ?  .  .  ." 

Donato  showed  all  his  teeth  in  a  broad  grin. 

When  he  got  home  Potterat  flung  himself  into  an  arm- 
chair. 

"  My  feet  are  burning.  ...  I  couldn't  pick  up  anything 
from  the  ground  if  you  were  to  give  me  twenty  francs; 
my  back  feels  nearly  broken,  my  blood  seems  to  be  going 
the  wrong  way,  my  ribs  are  aching,  and  my  thighs,  I  can't 
touch  them.  ...  I  expect  I'll  finish  up  with  an  attack  of 
lumbago.  .  .  .  Let  me  have  a  look  at  the  Feuille  d'Avis 
while  I'm  smoking  my  pipe." 

*  Liege  !  .  .  .  Namur  !  .  .  .  Maubeuge  !  .  .  .  France 
invaded  !'  .  .  .    His  pipe  went  out. 

"  Good  Heavens  !  The  whole  of  Europe  seems  likely 
to  be  drawn  into  this.  I  bet  you  it  won't  be  six 
months  before  we  hear  the  goose-step  going  past  here.  .  .  . 
Better  to  die  of  starvation !  .  .  .  Better  to  fall  down 
dead  !  .  .  .  Ah,  the  news  makes  me  ill.  I  feel  as  if  I  want 
to  go  and  walk  all  round  the  Lake.  It's  a  good  thing 
that  I'm  helping  Louise.  ...  To  work,  to  tire  myself  out, 
that  will  do  me  good,  and  take  my  mind  off  all  this.  .  .  . 
Otherwise  I'd  make  myself  ill  with  rage.  ...  I'll  go  back 
there  to-morrow." 

Donato  had  taken  part  in  the  Tripoli  campaign.  He 
was  very  ready  to  talk  about  his  experiences. 

"  To  have  to  eat  and  drink  in  that  sand,  under  that  sun, 
I  tell  you  it  doesn't  bear  thinking  about.  ...  I  used  to 
suck  little  pebbles,  and  try  to  pretend  to  myself  that  they 
were  pieces  of  ice.  ..." 


POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR  187 

"  Were  many  killed  ?" 

"  The  sun  killed  more  than  the  guns.  ..." 

Henri  muttered  something.  Immediately  the  Italian 
threw  a  black  look  at  him. 

"  What's  that  you  say  ?" 

"Me?  .  .  .     I  didn't  say  anything." 

A  little  later,  they  were  working  together,  getting  in 
the  hay  cut  the  evening  before,  as  quickly  as  possible, 
for  a  storm  was  coming  up.  Standing  on  the  waggon 
Donato  was  stacking  the  hay  passed  up  to  him  on  the 
point  of  the  fork  by  Henry. 

"  You  don't  know  how  to  pile  hay,"  said  Henri  suddenly. 

"  Sacramento  !  .  .  ." 

"  I  say  you  don't  know  how  to  pile  hay.  ..." 

Donato  started.  There  were  more  lightnings  in  his 
eyes  than  in  the  clouds.  With  the  suppleness  of  a  cat 
he  flung  himself  from  the  top  of  the  waggon,  and  landed 
right  in  front  of  his  adversary,  who  brandished  his  hay- 
fork to  keep  him  at  a  safe  distance. 

"  What  was  that  you  said  about  Italians  when  we  were 
drinking  coffee  ?  .  .  ." 

"Me?  .  .  .     I  said  nothing.  .  .  ." 

"  Yes,  you  did.  .  .  .    You  said  '  Macaroni !'  " 

"  Well,  and  if  I  did  ?  .  .  .  Macaroni's  good  to  eat. 
.  .  .  There's  no  harm  in  that.  ..." 

"  Sacramento  !  .  .  ." 

Donato  was  about  to  spring  on  him  when  Potterat 
intervened. 

"  You're  quite  right,  Donato.  You  must  make  your- 
self respected  .  .  .  but  also  you  must  learn  to  take  a  joke. 
.  .  .  You  people  of  the  South  are  far  too  ready  to  fight. 
And  this  is  not  the  time  for  that  sort  of  thing  either.  Go 
on  now  !     Both  of  you  shake  hands  !  .  .  ." 

"  Never  !  .  .  ."  cried  Donato,  and  took  himself  off  in 
high  dudgeon.  An  hour  later,  his  bundle  under  his  arm, 
he  quitted  the  farm. 


188  POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR 

"  You  ought  to  remember,  Henri,  that  the  Italians  are 
very  touchy.  As  you  go  on  in  life  you'll  learn  that  you 
must  talk  to  different  people  in  different  ways." 

The  work  was  now  redoubled  for  everyone.  They  had, 
it  is  true,  the  kindly  help  of  a  boy  scout,  very  clean  and 
neat,  and  very  good-natured,  who  hovered  about  the 
vegetables  unweariedly. 

But  in  spite  of  all  their  efforts,  the  fruit  rotted  on  the 
trees,  the  spinach  ran  to  seed,  salads  turned  yellow  and 
faded  for  want  of  water.  And,  to  crown  all,  the  farm 
mare  one  evening,  as  they  were  harnessing  her  into 
the  cart,  lay  down  between  the  shafts,  as  if  dead.  In 
spite  of  objurgations,  a  touch  of  the  whip,  coaxing,  and 
caressing,  there  she  lay  on  her  side,  her  head  stretched  out, 
her  lips  drawn  back  over  her  teeth.  The  veterinary  surgeon 
declared  it  to  be  an  apoplectic  stroke,  bled  the  mare,  and 
ordered  ten  days'  rest  in  the  stable.  Potterat  and  his 
auxiliaries  were  overworked,  stupid  from  over-fatigue. 
The  sunshine  danced  on  their  bent  backs,  their  tanned 
necks,  and  on  the  tops  of  the  hills.  Potterat  was  trying  to 
forget  the  nightmare  of  the  war  in  hard  work,  but  some 
internal  ear,  as  it  were,  seemed  perpetually  open  to  the 
noises  and  rumours  of  the  eternal  righting.  He  suffered 
vicariously  for  all  those  trellised  vines,  those  homes  once 
so  happy,  those  ears  of  corn,  those  branches  laden  with 
fruit,  torn  by  shell  fire  from  their  trunks  in  the  orchards 
of  France  and  Belgium.  .  .  .  And  for  those  dark  little 
heaps  on  the  bare  ground,  which  once  were  men. 

"  Which  side  are  you  for  ?  .  .  ."  asked  Potterat  suddenly 
of  the  little  boy  scout,  who  was  immensely  enjoying 
playing  at  being  a  peasant  for  a  time. 

The  schoolboy,  a  slim  stripling  in  khaki,  replied 
promptly,  and  his  answer  was  satisfactory  to  Potterat. 
But  he  added: 

"  But  one  must  give  them  their  due.  In  chemistry, 
they  are  simply  wonderful.     Last  year,  when  my  father 


POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR  189 

was  travelling  there,  he  saw  a  kitchen  run  entirely  by 
electricity.     They  even  cut  up  the  meat  by  electricity. ... ." 

"  Did  they  digest  it,  too,  by  electricity  ?"  interrupted 
Potterat.  "  I  don't  think  I  should  altogether  fancy  that 
electric  sort  of  life.  It  would  make  one  hard,  I  think. 
.  .  .  They  seem  now  to  be  trying  to  wipe  out  everybody 
with  their  electrical  contrivances.  .  .  .  No,  give  me  some- 
thing natural.  All  this  science  and  chemistry  is  devilish 
work.     To  know  everything,  is  to  spoil  everything.  ..." 

"  But  it's  a  good  thing  to  study  life.  ..." 

"  To  study  life  !  .  .  .  Why  ?  What  will  you  find  in  it  ? 
.  .  .  Life  wavers,  as  you  might  say,  between  a  note  of 
exclamation  and  another  of  interrogation.  The  wisest 
people  are  content  not  to  try  to  know  too  much.  You 
can't  cure  a  toothache  by  watching  an  aeroplane  dance 
about  in  the  air.  No,  Mother  Nature's  good  enough  for 
me.     I'll  stick  to  her." 

Potterat  returned  home  after  these  days  of  hard  work 
under  the  hot  sun  exhausted  to  such  an  extent  that  one 
evening  his  wife  said  to  him : 

"  You're  doing  too  much  altogether,  David.  .  .  .  You're 
out  of  breath  now  when  you  come  up  the  stairs.  .  .  .  And 
besides,  your  clothes  smell  of  the  stable  continually  now. 
I  saw  Madame  Sauer  make  a  face  the  other  day  when 
she  came  in.  .  .  ." 

"  I  don't  care  !  .  .  .  Tell  her  that  the  smell  of  cows  is 
good  for  anaemia.  ...  I  couldn't  possibly  leave  Louise  in 
the  lurch  these  two  last  months  .  .  .  the  worst  of  the  whole 
year.  She  is  worn  to  a  shadow  as  it  is ...  a  regular  August 
cat !  .  .  .  But  now  that  the  news  of  this  victory  on  the 
Marne  is  confirmed,  and  we  can  breathe  more  freely, 
there  won't  be  so  much  need  for  me  to  kill  myself  with 
work  in  order  to  keep  from  thinking.  .  .  .  To-morrow, 
I'll  go  round  the  registry  office  again,  and  as  soon  as  I 
can  find  someone  suitable,  I'll  take  a  holiday." 

A  temporary  registry  office  had  been  established,  to 


i9o  POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR 

meet  the  circumstances  of  the  moment,  in  a  former  public 
office  in  the  heart  of  the  city.  Still  proudly  displaying 
the  official  shield  on  its  pediment,  and  the  word  •  Office  ' 
below,  it  reminded  Potterat  pleasurably  of  the  comfort- 
ably regular  and  well  defined  life  of  the  public  service; 
the  slow  and  sure  movements,  the  order,  the  traditions 
that  he  loved.  He  even  rejoiced  in  the  familiar  bored 
yawn  of  the  concierge,  as  he  pointed  the  way  down  a 
maze  of  corridors  with  extended  hand. 

This  office  was  being  run  by  voluntary  workers,  edu- 
cated and  orthodox  people,  patriotic  students,  etc.,  who 
saw  in  this  work  an  opportunity  of  helping  in  this  hour 
of  national  stress.  From  dawn  to  dark  there  passed 
before  them  a  procession  of  Italian  masons,  seized  ap- 
parently with  a  sudden  love  for  farm  work;  of  boy  scouts, 
anxious  to  go  and  take  care  of  cows ;  watchmakers  ready 
to  exchange  the  file  for  the  fork.  Behind  the  counter 
sat  a  benignant-looking  individual  in  a  white  waistcoat, 
kindly  and  sympathetic. 

"You  know  we  are  passing  through  a  serious  crisis. 
Our  people  are  only  too  anxious  to  be  useful,  but  they 
scarcely  know  how  or  where  to  begin,  and  they  may  have 
to  be  shown  a  little.  ..." 

"  Will  he  be  afraid  of  the  bull  ?  .  .  ."  asked  a  peasant, 
but  the  genial  personage  could  give  no  answer  to  this. 
He  folded  his  thin  hands  on  his  white  waistcoat  and  was 
silent. 

When  Potterat' s  turn  came,  he  moved  up  to  the  little 
opening. 

"  Good-morning,  sir !  .  .  .  I  come  on  my  daughter's 
behalf.  .  .  .  She  has  a  farm  at  Vidy.  .  .  .  Her  husband  is 
mobilized,  and  one  of  her  farm  hands  has  run  away 
because  of  a  silly  joke.  .  .  .  Well,  I  want  a  good  strong 
fellow,  not  too  young,  not  perfection,  for  that  I  know  is 
not  to  be  had,  but  trustworthy  and  honest.  A  native  of 
these  parts,  naturally,  if  possible.     They  may  be  some- 


POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR  191 

what  less  lively,  but  they  have  cooler  heads  than  people 
from  farther  away." 

The  chosen  one  was  a  man,  blind  in  one  eye,  fifty-two 
years  old,  who  hailed  from  the  Pays-d'Enhaut.  He  knew 
how  to  wield  a  pitchfork,  anyhow,  and  spit  in  his 
hands  in  the  usual  way,  and  work  not  too  feverishly, 
and  chaff  and  joke. 

"  I'll  leave  you  now,"  said  Potterat  to  his  daughter. 
"  This  one-eyed  fellow  can  see  better  than  many  another 
man  who's  got  both  his  eyes.  ...  I  must  give  your  step- 
mother a  turn  now.  She  doesn't  like  my  being  away 
so  much.  ..." 

Louise's  eyes  shone  with  gratitude. 

"I'm  very  thankful  to  you  .  .  .  and  so  is  Justin  ...  he 
says  so  in  every  letter.  ...  I  wish  you  understood  him 
better. . . .  He's  a  bit  close  and  over-cautious,  but  at  heart 
he's  sound  enough.  ..." 

"  That's  all  right !  .  .  .  Everyone  has  his  own  nature. 
...  He  can't  change  himself.  .  .  .  I'll  remember  this  in 
future.  ..." 

"  That's  right !  .  .  .  Now  do  you  know  what  I  want 
you  to  do  ?  Carlo  will  give  you  a  hand.  I  want  you 
to  take  the  little  cart  and  a  basket  and  fill  them  from  the 
big  apple-tree  at  the  bottom  of  the  garden.  You  must 
have  something  for  your  trouble.  ..." 

"  Thank  you,  I  will.  And  we'll  think  of  you  when  we 
are  eating  apple  fritters.  Now  then,  Carlo  !  .  .  .  not  to 
mention  that  this  Marne  victory  has  put  me  in  quite  good 
spirits  again.  ..." 

The  red-cheeked  apples  fell  with  a  dull  thud  into  the 
outstretched  sheet.  The  bees  hummed  loudly  round  the 
asters  in  the  sweet  perfumed  air.  And  presently  the 
father  and  son  went  off,  drawing  the  little  cart.  Near 
the  reeds  and  the  willows  where  Major  Davel  had  died, 
Potterat  stopped,  and  drew  his  son  towards  the  monu- 
ment. 


ig2  POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR 

"  Look  here,  Carlo  !  History  in  class  is  rather  dull, 
you  know,  but  out  in  the  open  air,  it's  more  interesting. 
Just  here  where  we  are  standing  a  very  brave  man,  a 
native  of  these  parts,  a  vine-grower,  was  killed,  simply 
because  he  tried  to  deliver  the  Canton  of  Vaud  from 
slavery.  As  a  matter  of  fact  they  cut  off  his  head,  and 
good  Vaudois  looked  on  calmly.  It  is  a  good  thing  to 
learn  while  young  to  honour  great  men,  but  this  man 
was  a  martyr  as  well.  He  ought  to  be  honoured  even  more 
than  any  of  the  others.  Well,  one  is  better  than  nothing  ! 
.  .  .  Compared  with  Davel,  what  poor  creatures  we  are  ! 
He  died  for  an  ideal  ...  a  noble  death:  .  .  .  His  disease 
doesn't  seem  to  be  very  catching,  does  it  ?  .  .  ." 

The  reeds  rustled  against  the  stone,  and  murmured  their 
eulogy;  the  evening  breeze  swept  over  it  the  gold  and 
silver  and  russet  of  the  first  autumn  leaves. 

n  All  honour  to  you  !"  said  Potterat  again. 

Some  crows,  a  sinister  band,  with  outstretched  necks 
and  great  outspread  wings,  flew  across  in  the  direction 
of  the  Jura;  Potterat  jeered  at  them. 

"  You're  too  late,  you  devil's  grave-diggers  !  .  .  .  At 
the  rate  at  which  J  off  re  is  marching.  ..." 

"  Who's  Joffre  ?"  asked  the  boy. 

"  He  is  the  grandson  of  Joan  of  Arc,  and  the  nephew 

of  Davel Come  along  !     Let's  get  on  with  our  apples  !" 

and  drawing  the  little  cart,  father  and  son  took  their  way 
again  along  the  white  road. 

Potterat  was  in  his  garden  with  the  little  cripple  when 
he  suddenly  said: 

"  Robert,  shout:  '  Long  live  Joffre  !  '  " 

Astonished,  the  child  looked  up  at  him. 

"Don't  you  know  about  Joffre  ?" 

Possibly  the  little  one  may  have  heard  the  name,  but 
it  had  escaped  his  memory;  he  remembered  only  the 
colour  of  the  flowers,  the  pattern  of  a  wallpaper,  anything 


POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR  193 

that  could  bring  a  gleam  of  brightness  into  his  stunted 
soul. 

"  Well,  listen,  and  I'll  tell  you  about  Joffre.  ...  He 
is  a  rather  fat  man,  like  me,  but  ever  so  much  cleverer. 
.  .  .  Such  a  fine  head  he's  got !  .  .  .  And  a  big  moustache, 
and  a  kind  smile  !  .  .  .  Everyone  runs  after  him.  .  .  . 
And  now,  this  is  what  he  does.  .  .  .  Can  you  understand  ? 
.  .  .  He  retreats,  he  crosses  rivers,  and  streams,  and 
canals:  and  still  he  retires.  And  then  suddenly,  a  half- 
turn  to  the  right.  .  .  .  Forward  !  .  .  .  Quick  march  !  .  .  . 
and  then  Crash  !  there's  such  a  burst  of  fireworks  that  the 
other  leaps  back  for  about  fifty  miles  !  .  .  .  And  Paris  is 
saved  !  France  is  saved  !  The  world  is  saved  !  .  .  .  Do 
you  understand  ?" 

"  Yes,"  said  the  little  invalid,  terrified. 

"  And  I  could  tell  you  many  other  things  .  .  .  only  we 
are  neutral.  ..." 

The  thing  that  most  impressed  Potterat  in  this  war 
— for  with  all  his  common  sense  he  had  the  vivid  senti- 
mentality of  the  man  of  the  people,  a  creature  of  instinct 
and  concrete  imagination — was  the  conflict  between 
different  nationalities,  different  attitudes  of  mind,  different 
outlooks  on  life,  between  the  will  for  oppression  and  the 
will  for  liberty.  For  he  simplified  everything  to  the  utter- 
most. 

" '  Round  heads  against  square  heads,'  it  is  quite  simple. 
We,  thank  God,  have  round  heads,  so  we  know  in  whom 
we  ought  to  believe,  and  with  whom  to  have  sympathy. 
Children  can  always  find  their  mothers.  .  .  .  Since  that 
affair  of  Belgium,  it's  the  duty  of  every  true  patriot  to 
speak  out." 

Potterat 's  imagination  was  so  vivid  that  for  the  time 
being  he  remembered  no  longer  his  age,  his  name,  his 
nationality.  Little  by  little,  however,  for  no  man  can 
live  at  such  high  pressure  for  long,  the  waves  of  glory 
ebbed  from  that  over-heated  brain,  he  came  back  to  his 

13 


194  POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR 

surroundings.  He  saw  once  more  the  closed-in  court- 
yard, the  five  stories,  the  balconies  with  their  cemented 
roofs,  the  puffy  face  of  the  nursemaid  at  the  Sauers', 
Robert's  frail  little  limbs,  and  lastly,  himself,  with  his  in- 
creasing corpulence.     He  said  presently  to  his  wife : 

"  It  doesn't  seem  right,  somehow,  to  have  regular  meals, 
to  fatten  oneself  systematically.  Since  the  war  began, 
I  can't  bear  it.  .  .  .  I  feel  as  if  my  blood  were  on  fire,  my 
thoughts  run  on  nothing  else.  ...  I  go  with  the  armies 
in  imagination.  ...  I  charge  with  them  !  .  .  .  It  mad- 
dens me,  to  have  to  sit  here,  doing  nothing.  .  .  .  You  see, 
I  am  naturally  an  active  man,  a  born  fighter  .  .  .  and  then, 
too,  I  can't  get  this  Belgium  out  of  my  head.  ..." 

One  day  Potterat  came  in  with  a  mysterious  parcel 
under  his  arm. 

"  What  have  you  got  there  ?"  asked  his  wife. 

"  You'll  soon  see  ...  or  rather  hear,"  said  he.  And 
from  that  time  might  be  heard  every  evening  after  supper 
the  strains  of  a  gramophone  coming  from  the  dining-room, 
where  Potterat  shut  himself  up  with  it.  Over  and  over 
again  he  played  the  selection  of  airs  he  had  chosen: 
*  Roulez  Tambours  ' ;  the  '  Cantique  Suisse  ' ;  the  '  Ranz 
des  Vaches  ' ;  the  '  Marche  Lorraine  ' ; '  Sambre  et  Meuse  ' ; 
the  '  Petit  Alsacien  ';  and  Deroulede's  '  Clairon/  A  sort 
of  intoxication  possessed  him;  as  the  trumpets  brayed  out 
the  warlike  strains,  he  marched  round  and  round  the  table, 
his  walking-stick  on  his  shoulder  by  way  of  a  rifle.  "  War 
in  a  room  isn't  quite  the  same  thing  as  war  in  the  open 
air,  certainly,  but  it's  something.  ...  If  I  only  close  my 
eyes  for  a  minute,  I  can  see  the  flags  flying.  ...  I  can 
hear  the  thunder  of  the  guns,  the  bullets  whistling  through 
the  air.  ..."  Potterat 's  martial  enthusiasm  quite  carried 
him  away  at  these  times.  He  lived  in  turn  through 
terror,  horror,  and  the  intoxication  of  actual  battle.  .  .  . 
He  charged  an  armchair  with  his  walking-stick  bayonet. 
,  .  .  Ah-h  !  .  .  .    Then  he  saw  himself  wounded,  a  limb 


POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR  195 

amputated,  decorated,  .  .  .  and  then,  multiplying  himself, 
he  was  by  turns  the  crowd  which  applauded,  the  General 
who  decorated  him,  and  the  wounded  hero.  ...  It  was 
Nasillard,  the  well-known  baritone,  who  sang  in  the 
gramophone  the  adventures  of  the  ■  Petit  Alsacien  ' ;  a 
volunteer,  engaged  in  fighting  for  his  beloved  province, 
its  storks,  its  blue  skies,  its  birch  woods,  its  churches.  .  .  . 
Suddenly  a  cry  .  .  .  and  the  Petit  Alsacien  falls  to  the 
ground,  mortally  wounded.  .  .  .  Potterat,  his  chin  sunk 
on  his  breast  as  he  listened,  shed  real  tears  of  sympathy. 
He  gesticulated.  And  in  the  quiet  of  the  well-protected 
room,  he  spoke : 

"  Me  be  silent !  .  .  .  Never  !  Never  !  .  .  .  Let  them 
come  and  surround  me  with  fifty  policemen,  and  a  thousand 
soldiers,  I  should  still  shout :  '  Bravo,  Belgium  !  .  .  . 
Bravo,  Luxemburg  !  .  .  .  Justice  and  freedom  for  ever  ! 
.  .  .  France  for  ever  !  .  .  .  Serbia  for  ever  !  .  .  .  Monte- 
negro for  ever  !  .  .  .  England  for  ever  !  .  .  .  All  those  who 
have  fought  and  died  for  Belgium,  for  the  independence 
of  little  nations! 

Then  he  changed  the  record,  and  listened  gravely  to  the 
"  Cantique  Suisse,"  echoing  in  his  heart  the  line  '  God  will 
bless  us  from  the  heavens.'  "  The  true,  good  God, 
naturally,"  he  said  to  himself.  "  As  for  the  other  ...  as 
for  the  other.  .  .  .   Well,  there  is  no  other.  ..." 

Madame  Potterat  was  not  so  enthusiastic.  "  I  can't 
think  how  you  can  enjoy  those  old  tunes  so  much,"  she 
grumbled. 

"  Oh,  it  cheers  me  up,  raises  my  spirits.  ..." 

"  Sometimes  I  wonder  if  you're  Swiss  at  all  now.  ..." 

Potterat  fell  back  a  step  at  this  libel. 

"  What  ?  .  .  .  What's  that  you  say  ?  .  .  .  Who  are  you 
talking  to  ?  .  .  .  I'm  a  pure-bred  Vaudois,  Swiss  through 
and  through.  Listening  to  the  songs  of  those  who  fight 
in  a  noble  caufp  doesn't  mean  that  a  man  is  a  traitor 
to  his  own  country.     Now  I'll  put  it  to  you:  Suppose 


196  POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR 

it  had  been  ourselves  who  had  been  invaded  and  destroyed 
instead  of  these  other  people,  and  that  you  heard  from 
somebody  that,  away  over  there  in  Belgium,  someone 
listened  to  our  patriotic  songs  on  the  gramophone,  out  of 
sympathy,  you  wouldn't  say  he  was  a  traitor  to  Belgium, 
would  you  ?  .  .  .  It's  just  because  I  love  my  country  so 
much  that  the  account  of  that  invasion  has  upset  me  so. 
It's  those  who  take  it  all  calmly  who  are  false  to  the 
traditions  of  their  forefathers.  .  .  .  And  then  you,  at  any 
rate,  can  do  something  to  help,  .  .  .  you  are  knitting  for 
the  soldiers,  for  the  wounded.  .  .  .  But  I'm  like  a  great 
bumble-bee,  droning  about.  .  .  .  This  gramophone  makes 
me  feel  for  the  moment  as  if  I  were  in  the  middle  of  it 
all.  .  .  .   How's  the  knitting  going  on  ?  .  .  ." 

"  I've  done  two  pairs  of  socks  for  Ernest,  two  pairs  for 
Schmid,  one  pair  for  Cousin  Auguste,  four  pairs  for  the 
Red  Cross,  and  six  shirts;  and  this  evening  I  start  on 
some  things  for  the  men  in  the  trenches.  ..." 

"  Make  some  more  of  those  affairs  that  keep  the  stomach 
warm.  There  are  three  places  where  a  man  feels  the  cold 
most — his  stomach,  his  feet,  and  between  his  shoulders. 
.  .  .  Knit  away,  you  women,  as  hard  as  you  can.  .  .  . 
You  may  hold  thousands  of  lives  at  the  ends  of  your 
needles.  .  .  .  Now,  here  in  Switzerland,  women  are  of 
more  account  than  men,  thanks  to  this  knitting.  .  .  .  We 
men  can  only  look  on." 

Every  evening,  while  her  knitting-needles  flashed  back 
the  light,  singing  the  gay  song  of  workers  with  a  clear  con- 
science, Potterat  read  aloud  the  news  of  the  day  to  his  wife. 

"  Bravo  !  Give  me  the  scissors  !"  he  would  exclaim 
on  reading  of  some  touching  or  some  heroic  incident. 
And  he  wouid  cut  out  these,  and  add  them  to  other 
cuttings  already  stored  in  a  big  yellow  envelope,  labelled 
'  Records  of  Brave  Men.' 

"Just  listen  to  this!  Doesn't  it  bring  the  tears  to 
your  eyes  ?  .  .  .    It's  the  last  letter  of  a  soldier  at  the 


POTTER  AT  AND  THE  WAR  197 

front :  '  Tell  my  comrades  not  to  weep  for  me.  I  die 
happy,  because  I've  done  what  I  could.  .  .  .  Tell  the 
boys  to  stick  to  it,  and  to  have  patience.  When  a  cause 
is  just  it  always  wins.  The  great  thing  is  to  carry  on. 
...  I  salute  the  flag.  ...  I'm  going  to  sleep.  . .  .  Good-bye  ! 
.  .  .'  It's  almost  too  fine  to  be  quite  true,  I'm  afraid.  But 
it's  beautiful  all  the  same. ..."  He  continued  his  reading : 
11  The  condition  of  things  in  Switzerland.  .  .  .  Sugar  is 
rising  in  price  rapidly.  Our  housewives  had  a  disagreeable 
surprise  this  morning  in  learning  that  this  commodity, 
so  necessary  to  our  daily  needs,  had  gone  up  another  ten 
centimes  the  kilo.  .  .  .'  How  annoying  !  .  .  .  Let's  see  what 
else  it  says. . .  .  Oh,  good  !  Splendid  !  That's  something 
like  !  .  .  .  Oh,  I  will  certainly  take  some,  a  whole  band 
of  them  !  .  .  .  We'll  put  beds  in  Carlo's  room,  in  the 
drawing-room,  everywhere  !  .  .  .  Since  one  can't  fight  in 
reality,  one  can  at  least  engage  in  the  field  of  charity. ..." 

"What  is  it?  .  .  .     What's  the  matter  ?" 

'  The  matter  is  that  they're  bringing  some  of  these 
Belgians,  who  have  been  turned  out  of  their  homes,  into 
Switzerland.  ...  A  committee  has  been  appointed,  and 
asks  for  the  names  of  those  who  are  willing  to  put  some 
of  them  up.  .  .  .  We'll  take  some,  shan't  we  ?  .  .  .  You'd 
like  to,  wouldn't  you  ?  .  .  ." 

Madame  Potterat  let  her  knitting  fall  on  her  lap;  the 
tears  shone  in  her  kind  blue  eyes. 

V  Poor  things  !  .  .  .  Of  course,  I'd  like  to  take  some  of 
them  in." 

"Oh,  how  jolly  !"  cried  Carlo  excitedly. 

"  Jolly  ?  .  .  .  What  do  you  mean  by  jolly  ?  .  .  .  When 
you  see  these  poor  old  men  and  women,  in  rags,  tired  out, 
perhaps  irritable  and  cross — as  you'd  be  if  you  had  lost 
everything  you  had  possessed — these  poor  children, 
flying  before  their  enemies,  you  won't  feel  like  shouting 
■  How  jolly  !'  This  is  not  a  picnic,  you  know,  it's  a  sad 
duty.  .  .  .    Everyone  has  his  work  cut  out.     Some  have 


198  POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR 

to  die,  some  have  to  have  their  legs  cut  off,  we  have  to 
play  the  Good  Samaritan.  .  .  .  Those  who  reckoned  on 
our  showing  some  spirit  were  disappointed.  ...  Well, 
we  may  win  back  some  of  their  respect  by  our  charity; 
we  will  nurse  and  care  for  the  old  men  and  women,  and 
the  poor  little  babies  without  father  or  mother,  and  the 
terrified  children.  ...  All  is  not  yet  lost.  .  .  .  Now,  shall 
we  offer  to  take  four  ?  or  do  you  think  we  could  manage 
six  ?  .  .  ." 

"  My  dear  !  .  .  .  Where  do  you  think  we  are  going  to 
put  them  ?  .  .  .  No,  we  can  only  take  two,  anyhow,  to 
begin  with." 

"  And  children,  of  course  ? . . .  Orphans,  if  possible " 

"  Of  course." 

**  All  right !  .  .  .  Oh,  this  will  set  me  up  again  I  .  .  . 
Those  poor  little  children  !  We'll  teach  them  to  like 
Swiss  jam.  .  .  .  We'll  right  ourselves  in  the  eyes  of  Europe. 
Others  kill,  but  we  save  life.  .  .  .  Well,  I  must  see  some 
of  these  Belgians  here.  ...  I  shall  tell  them,  too,  what  I 
think  about  things  altogether.  ..." 

Presently,  when  Carlo  had  gone  to  bed,  and  Madame 
Potterat's  knitting-needles  were  once  more  clicking  under 
the  lamp,  Potterat,  his  chin  almost  on  the  table,  his 
tongue  between  his  teeth,  wrote  laboriously  as  follows: 

'  To  the  President  of  the  Belgian  Reception 
Committee. 

■  The  undersigned  and  his  wife,  of  5,  Avenue  des 
Roses,  the  father  and  mother  of  a  boy  of  nine,  having 
room  and  a  liking  for  children,  and  a  strong  desire  to  show 
their  sympathy  with  the  suffering  Belgians,  apply  for 
two  refugees,  if  possible  children,  and  preferably  orphans. 
They  will  be  lodged,  fed,  and  surrounded  with  the  loving 
care  of  a  family  which  will  do  its  best  to  supply  the  place 
of  those  they  have  lost.     An  early  and  favourable  reply 


POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR  199 

will  oblige.     Please  state  where,  when,  and  how,  we  are  to 
take  delivery  of  these  orphans.     Switzerland  for  ever  ! 
Belgium  for  ever  !     From  one  who  has  a  round  head,  and 
his  heart  in  the  right  place,  and  who  begs  to  remain, 
'  Respectfully  yours, 

'  David  Potterat 
('  Late  of  the  Police,  now  retired.) 

'  P.S.  — If  there  should  be  three  of  a  family,  or  even  four 
brothers  and  sisters,  we  should  try  and  manage  to  put 
them  up. 

*  1  remain, 

*  As  before.' 

Having  finished  and  addressed  his  letter,  Potterat  said 
simply : 

"  Let's  go  to  bed.  For  once,  I  shall  get  a  good  night's 
sleep.  ..." 


CHAPTER  IX 

"  This  evening,  at  ten  minutes  to  eight." 

"  Are  you  sure  ?  .  .  .  You've  already  gone  up  three 
times  for  nothing.  ..." 

"  Ten  minutes  to  eight  ..."  repeated  Potterat.  "  I 
had  it  from  one  of  the  chief  officials." 

The  moon-like  electric  light  globes  of  the  square  out- 
side the  railway- station  shone  down  on  a  closely  packed 
crowd.  Here  and  there  someone  stood  on  tiptoe;  others 
tried  to  peep  between  the  ever-moving  figures  in  front  of 
them;  no  one  spoke  much,  for  fear  of  dispensing  any  of 
their  pent-up  sympathy  too  soon.  Everyone  waited. 
Some  trains  came  in,  and  presently  went  out  again  with 
the  louder  rumbling  of  empty  carriages.  And  still  nothing 
happened.  A  railway  official  passing,  who  recognized 
Potterat,  whispered  to  him : 

"  It's  no  use  standing  about  here  any  longer.  They've 
sent  them  out  by  the  little  south  staircase.  ..." 

"  By  the  south  stairs?  ...  By  those  dark  passages  where 
you  can't  see  your  hand  before  you  ?  .  .  .  that  cut-throat 
place  !  .  .  ."  and  Potterat  rushed  off  at  once,  followed  by 
his  wife  and  son,  saying  as  he  went,  "  They've  gone  out 
by  the  other  side."  The  whole  crowd  ran  too,  portly 
gentlemen  with  their  sticks  under  their  arms,  workmen 
in  tweed  caps,  old  men,  bareheaded  women,  schoolboys, 
and  schoolgirls  with  long  plaits;  a  miscellaneous  crowd, 
kicking  up  a  dust  that  made  a  halo  round  the  lamp 
globes.  Through  that  December  night  a  sad  procession 
wound  its  way  slowly  towards  the  new  school-house 
with  its  brilliantly  lighted  windows.    At  the  spot  where 

200 


POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR  201 

Potterat  was  standing,  between  a  piece  of  waste  ground, 
and  the  tree-shaded  promenade,  it  was  too  dark  to  see 
anything  clearly.  But  soon  one's  eyes  grew  accustomed 
to  it,  and  then  one  could  begin  to  distinguish,  between 
the  helmets  of  the  policemen,  three  flags  mingling  their 
folds — the  French,  Belgian,  and  Swiss  flags — and  behind 
these,  some  old  men  and  women,  their  mouths  a  little  awry 
from  carrying  packages  too  heavy  for  their  strength,  but 
which,  nevertheless,  they  would  not  give  up  to  anyone,  be- 
cause these  were  all  they  had  left  in  the  world.  And  many, 
many  women  with  little  children  hanging  to  their  skirts. 
.  .  .  This  procession  seemed  as  if  it  would  never  come  to 
an  end.  .  .  .  On  and  on  they  went,  these  poor  people  who 
had  seen  those  red  stains  made  by  blood  which  has  sunk 
into  the  dust;  the  stiff  forms  of  the  dead,  their  glassy 
eyes  staring  into  the  distance;  the  red  curtain  of  smoke 
from  villages  in  flames,  these  people  who  had  fled  across 
their  fields,  running  madly,  leaping  over  the  hedges. 
..."  There  they  are  !"  .  .  .  They  turn  round  and 
run  still  more  madly  in  another  direction.  .  .  .  The  more 
feeble  fall  exhausted  at  the  foot  of  a  hill  .  .  .  and  always  in 
their  ears  is  the  sound  of  the  big  guns,  and  sometimes  that 
sound  as  of  tearing  calico,  the  monotonous  tack-tack-tack 
of  the  mitrailleuses. . .  .  And  now  they  seem  to  have  come 
to  an  end  of  feeling,  they  know  nothing  of  what  is  going  on 
round  them,  they  think  of  nothing,  their  mouths  are 
half  open,  their  eyes  are  fixed,  their  muscles  stand  out 
under  their  grey  skin,  and  they  march  on,  and  on,  and  on, 
pell-mell,  like  a  flock  of  sheep,  with  their  wheelbarrows, 
their  perambulators,  and  their  little  hand-carts  .  .  .  pell- 
mell  with  their  cows,  and  sheep,  and  goats ;  and  when  the 
animals  give  out,  they  throw  them  into  the  ditches,  and 
go  on,  and  on,  and  on,  too  tired  even  to  weep.  ...  On 
and  on,  first  to  this  little  village,  then  to  that,  a  little 
farther  on,  then  to  some  little  town,  driven  farther  and 
farther  each  day,  by  the  guns  which  come  ever  nearer.  .  .  . 


202  POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR 

Why  run  away,  when  everything  is  lost  ?  .  .  .  Their 
homes  a  heap  of  smoking  cinders ;  their  harvests  trampled 
down,  ruined,  pillaged;  the  grandmother,  too  old  to  run, 
left  in  that  hell,  saying:  "I'd  rather  die  here!"  .  .  . 
husbands  and  sons  prisoners,  or  shot  perhaps.  ..."  Here 
they  are !"  And  then  they  are  crowded  into  a  train  in 
the  drizzling  rain;  the  windows  are  dim;  they  start  on 
what  seems  an  endless  journey  ;  now  and  then  when 
someone  tries  to  look  out  of  a  window  after  rubbing  it  with 
the  hand,  all  they  can  see  across  the  veil  of  rain  hanging 
from  sky  to  earth,  are  leafless  trees,  a  red  clock-tower 
occasionally,  a  road  zigzagging  across  the  track,  and  on 
it  a  dark  ribbon,  with  glittering  points  in  it  here  and 
there :  and  these  were  men  who  were  going  to  fight ;  then 
night  falls;  and  always  they  go  on  and  on.  Now  when 
one  looks  out  there  is  nothing  but  blackness,  a  menacing 
blackness,  just  now  and  then  a  glimpse  of  a  lighted 
window.  So  there  are  still  peaceful  firesides  in  the  world  ? 
.  .  .  And  still  they  go  on,  and  on,  through  the  night  .  .  . 
they  stop  .  .  .  they  go  on  again;  always  they  hold  fast  their 
bundles  under  their  feet.  Suddenly,  someone  tells  them 
that  they  are  in  another  country,  a  fact  to  which  they  are 
indifferent,  since  they  have  no  longer  a  country  of  their  own. 
All  these  people,  who  have  seen  those  rusty  stains  made 
by  blood  in  the  dust,  who  have  been  rushed  here  and  there, 
who  have  glued  their  faces  to  the  dim  windows  of  railway 
carriages,  and  seen  lights  flashing  for  a  moment  through 
the  night,  are  now  walking  whither  they  know  not — if  they 
did  know,  it  would  make  no  difference  to  them — and  people 
look  at  them,  and  there  are  gentle  kindly  policemen  all 
round  them,  carrying  their  bundles  for  them,  and  they  feel 
sure  that  the  bundles  will  be  given  back  to  them,  since 
the  kindly  helpers'  eyes  are  wet  with  tears. 

From  the  crowd  a  cry  goes  up,  and  if  it  sounds  a  little 
stifled,  it  is  because  it  comes  from  the  depths  of  the 
heart:  '  Vive  la  Belgique  !' 


POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR  203 

"  Let's  get  out  of  this,"  said  Potterat.  "  I  can't  bear 
to  see  this  procession.  I  feel  as  if  I  had  a  tight  cord 
round  my  chest,  a  hand  on  my  throat !  .  .  .  To  think  that 
we — we — might  have  been  sent  flying  like  that  through 
Europe,  trudging  on  a  December  evening  between  rows 
of  unknown  faces,  with  a  valise  and  our  memories  ! 
.  .  .  My  God  !     It  makes  me  furious  !  .  .  ." 

"  Well,  it's  a  good  thing  that  everyone  is  so  ready  to 
welcome  them.  What  a  crowd  !  .  .  .  And  if  they  don't 
seem  very  demonstrative,  perhaps  it  is  because  they  are 
too  deeply  moved." 

"  For  my  part,  I  should  like  to  have  ranged  up  all  the 
schoolboys  along  the  pavements,  and  to  have  made  them 
take  off  their  hats  to  these  poor  people.  .  .  .  And  the 
next  day,  the  masters  should  have  taught  them  how  to 
think  of  it.  .  .  .  And  there  should  have  been  a  band,  one 
in  every  corner,  playing  Belgian  airs,  airs  that  would  have 
reminded  them  of  their  old  home.  .  .  .  Can't  you  imagine 
what  we  should  feel  if  we  entered  Brussels  in  our  flight 
to  the  sound  of  'II  est,  amis,  une  terre  sacr£e  '  ?  .  .  . 
How  the  tears  would  rush  to  our  eyes  !  .  .  .  It  is  by  little 
touches  like  these  that  one  shows  sympathy  best.  That 
which  comes  from  the  heart,  goes  to  the  heart.  When  the 
heart  is  dead,  a  people  is  very  near  to  the  rigidity  of  the 

grave Wre  are  full  of  sentiment,  only  we're  ashamed  to 

show  it ! . . .  W7ell,  I  hope  they'll  realize  it  all  the  same ! . . . " 

"  Then,  too,  somebody  might  have  made  a  speech " 

"Oh,  I  don't  know  !  I  don't  care  for  the  set 
speech  of  some  orator  who  speaks  well,  and  rounds 
off  his  phrases.  What  counts  is  the  personal  touch,  the 
warm  handshake,  the  sympathetic  glance,  the  spon- 
taneous words  of  him  who  has  nothing  to  gain,  who  is 
not  obliged  to  roll  and  turn  his  words  in  his  mouth  fifty 
times,  and  put  off  the  sequel  till  next  year.  As  soon 
as  official  diplomacy  comes  in,  the  whole  thing  goes  down 
ten  degrees.     And  while  they're  bowing  and  scraping  in- 


204  POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR 

side,  the  popular  welcome  is  freezing  outside.  .  .  .    There 
is  a  great  difference.  ..." 

"  Then  you  think  that  there  should  have  been  more 
of  a  demonstration  ?  ..." 

"  Not  at  all.  As  it  was,  I  couldn't  stay  until  the  end.  No, 
I  was  speaking  generally.  It's  this  idea  of  leading  them 
through  all  the  little  back  streets  that  I  don't  like.  .  .  ." 

"  Perhaps  they  were  afraid  of  tiring  them." 

"  The  warm-hearted  sympathy  of  the  people  couldn't 
tire  anyone.  But  the  back  ways  are  '  more  neutral,'  I 
suppose." 

As  soon  as  they  reached  home  again,  Potterat  began: 

"  Now,  I've  been  thinking  over  this  question  of  room 
again.  .  .  .  Two  beds  only.  ...  I  keep  thinking  about 
that  drawing-room  of  yours.  What  do  we  want  with  a 
drawing-room  in  war-time  ? . . .  Roll  up  your  carpet !  .  .  ." 

"  Oh  yes,  do  roll  up  the  carpet,  mother,"  chimed  in 
Carlo. 

Abruptly,  realizing  her  duty  as  a  privileged  Swiss 
woman,  Madame  Potterat  yielded. 

-■  Certainly,  I'll  give  up  my  drawing-room.  .  .  .  We 
ought  to  be  thankful  that  we  have  one  to  give  !  .  .  ." 

So  the  drawing-room  was  transformed  into  a  dormitory. 
To  give  it  a  touch  of  patriotism,  Potterat  brought  from 
the  town  the  oath  of  the  Swiss  Federation,  a  picture  of 
the  Battle  of  Morat,  which  he  hung  above  the  beds,  and 
a  brush  bag,  embroidered  with  gentian,  edelweiss;  and 
rhododendrons.     Then  he  began  to  grow  impatient. 

'  When  will  they  come,  these  children,  I  wonder  ?  .  .  . 
Whatever  happens,  we  must  have  children.  One  gets  fond 
of  them,  and  they  have  no  fads  and  fancies.  ..." 

"  I  should  like  some  little  girls  best,  some  pretty  little 
girls.  ..." 

Silently,  they  stood  with  their  arms  folded,  surveying 
the  little  white  beds,  half  hidden  in  the  soft  shadow  of 
their  curtains. 


POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR  205 

"  It  all  looks  very  nice.  .  .  .  We  have  done  everything 
we  could  to  make  it  so,  anyhow.  .  .  ." 

The  disappointment  of  the  couple  was  immense  when 
they  received  a  very  thin  old  man,  and  a  little  woman 
with  a  tanned  face  from  which  her  blue  eyes  shone  out 
with  the  quick  frightened  glances  of  a  hunted  animal. 
They  concealed  their  discomfiture,  however,  as  well  as 
they  could. 

u  Come  in,  come  in,  all  the  same  !  .  .  ."  said  Potterat. 
'  You  must  try  to  feel  at  home  with  us.     What  we  have 
we  offer  you  with  all  our  hearts.     WTelcome  !  ..." 

Silently,  Madame  Potterat,  and  then  Carlo,  shook  hands 
with  the  new  arrivals,  who  stood  timidly  in  front  of  their 
little  valise,  which  they  had  set  down  on  the  tiles  of  the 
hall.  Madame  Potterat  murmured  something  of  which 
they  only  caught  the  word  "  pleasure." 

"Madame,  do  not  speak  of  pleasure.  There  is  no 
more  pleasure.  .   .  ." 

And  shaking  her  head,  and  raising  her  short  stumpy 
hands,  made  still  more  squat  by  her  mittens,  the 
little  woman  allowed  herself  to  be  led  away  by  Madame 
Potterat.  As  she  murmured  something  about  rest, 
supper,  a  comfortable  bed,  the  woman  stopped,  and  once 
more  raised  her  hands. 

"  Oh,  if  you  only  knew  !  .  .  ." 

As  for  the  old  man,  he  smelt  of  smoke  and  said 
nothing.  Presently  they  were  all  in  the  kitchen,  Carlo, 
red  in  the  face  with  his  efforts,  worked  the  coffee- 
mill  with  tremendous  energy;  his  mother  beat  up  eggs; 
Potterat  drew  the  cork  of  a  bottle  of  wine.  Suddenly, 
with  a  smile,  he  confided  in  his  guests. 

'  To  tell  the  truth,  we  expected  some  orphans.  .  .  .  And 
perhaps  we've  got  some,  after  all.  .  .  .  Anyhow,  at  your 
age,  you  need  a  little  affection.  I  can  well  imagine 
myself  in  your  place.  When  one  has  been  born,  married, 
and  had  children,  and  has  buried  one's  parents,  all  in  the 


206  POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR 

same  place,  one  has  grown  into  it  firmly,  especially  men 
.  .  .  they  have  their  clubs,  their  politics,  their  inn,  their 
occupation,  their  colleagues.  .  .  .  And  then  to  be  up- 
rooted, swept  away  from  all  one's  bearings,  driven  here 
and  there  through  half  Europe,  to  have  to  live  among 
strangers.  .  .  .    Oh,  it's  a  terrible  thing  !  .  .  ." 

As  the  old  man  still  remained  speechless,  Potterat 
remarked  later,  when  they  discussed  their  guests : 

"  He  doesn't  talk  much.  .  .  .  But  it's  very  natural, 
after  such  a  shock.  .  .  .  We'll  have  to  watch  him,  and  see 
that  he  doesn't  try  to  hang  himself  from  the  curtain 
poles.  .  .  ."  # 

Under  these  words,  Potterat  hid  his  emotion.  He 
was  very  deeply  moved,  and  he  winked  his  eyes  hard  to 
keep  the  tears  back. 

"  Just  think  !  .  .  .  To  have  to  settle  down  amongst 
strangers  at  his  age  !  .  .  .  Imagine  us  in  such  a  position  ! 
.  .  .  We  must  pet  them  up,  and  be  as  nice  to  them  as  ever 
we  can  !  .  .  ." 

Jeanne  Cremet,  the  little  old  woman,  had  been  born 
and  brought  up,  and  had  lived  throughout  her  married 
life,  in  a  little  town  near  Ostend.  She  had  had  eight 
children,  four  of  whom  had  died  when  very  young.  The 
husband  was  a  fisherman,  a  very  precarious  trade  ...  for 
once  that  one  makes  anything  by  it,  one  comes  back 
twice  empty-handed. 

Drawing  from  her  apron  pocket  a  crumpled  picture- 
postcard,  Jeanne  Cremet  said: 

'  That  is  the  street  we  lived  in.  And  that  window 
there  is  our  house.  And  that  is  the  Hotel  Vin  Clairet, 
where  I  often  used  to  go  and  cook  wedding  breakfasts. 
This  picture- postcard  is  all  Lhave  now  of  our  old  home. 
.  .  .  Everything  !  .  .  .  You  see,  we  had  to  fly  at  two  o'clock 
in  the  morning.  They  were  simply  pouring  in  !  .  .  .  The 
noise  and  uproar,  the  dreadful  screams  !  .  .  .  and  the  poor 


POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR 


207 


people  running,  running,  running  away  by  every  road  out 
of  the  town  .  .  .  grandfathers  with  yelling  children,  men 
dragging  carts,  others  carrying  sick  people.  ...  I  was 
leading  a  little  grandchild,  and  my  husband  two  others. 
.  .  .  How  we  ran  !  .  .  .  We  had  actually  to  fight  our  way 
on  to  one  of  the  boats.  Everybody  wanted  to  get  away 
at  once,  no  one  would  stay  behind.  .  .  .  They  had  heard 
enough  about  the  things  that  had  happened  to  make 
one's  hair  stand  on  end !  .  .  .  And  when  at  last  we  did 
get  away,  there  were  sixty  of  us  in  a  boat  made  to  hold 
twenty.  .  .  . 

"  And  your  three  little  grandchildren,  what  became  of 
them?" 

'  There  is  one  at  Calais,  and  two  were  taken  to  England. 
...  As  for  my  two  sons,  and  my  two  daughters,  we  haven't 
the  least  idea  where  they  are.  ..." 

"  And  how  did  you  manage  on  that  boat  ?" 

"  The  water  came  up  level  with  the  decks.  On  the 
way  we  passed  ten  English  men-of-war,  and  each  time 
we  thought  we  should  have  gone  under,  because  of  the 
wash.  We  kept  saying  to  each  other :  '  Oh,  if  only  we 
could  feel  dry  land  once  more  under  our  feet!  We 
shouldn't  leave  it  again,  for  fire,  or  plague,  or  Germans  ! 
.  .  .  Any  death  is  better  than  drowning.  .  .  .'  We  were 
eighteen  hours  before  we  got  into  Calais.  And  many 
people  were  sick  on  board,  so  sick  that  they  just  lay  on 
the  ground  anywhere,  across  the  gangways,  and  people 
walked  over  them.  They  didn't  care.  .  .  .  They  were 
more  dead  than  alive.  ..." 

For  some  moments  Louis  Cremet  had  been  staring, 
without  seeing  them,  at  the  portraits  of  Potterat's  two 
wives.  They  seemed  to  be  smiling  at  him,  these  two, 
and  also  the  photographs  of  the  policemen,  in  their  tunics 
with  glittering  buttons. 

"  For  my  part,"  he  said  at  last,  "  I  should  have  been 
glad  if  that  boat  had  gone  down.     For  all  we  are  likely 


208  POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR 

to  get  back.  ...  It  was  our  own  .  .  .  the  house,  you 
know.  ..." 

"  Oh,  be  quiet !  .  .  .  We'll  begin  to  work  again  .  .  . 
we'll  rebuild  it.  .  .  ." 

In  vain  did  Madame  Potterat,  too,  try  to  picture  their 
return  to  their  country,  once  more  their  own,  taking  up 
their  old  life  again.  Cremet  did  not  even  hear  her:  his 
light  eyes  seemed  to  be  gazing  within,  seeing  only  the 
ruin  of  his  life,  the  end  of  everything. 

Carlo,  dreadfully  disappointed,  said  to  his  school- 
fellows : 

'  We  have  some  old  people.  At  first,  it  was  rather 
amusing,  but  they  keep  telling  us  the  same  things  over 
and  over  again.  ..." 

They  often  looked  at  each  other  without  saying  a  word. 
On  each  side  they  were  fully  determined  to  do  everything 
that  was  right.  But  good  will  alone  is  not  always  enough. 
Wrhen  Madame  Potterat  spread  out  on  the  table  a  length 
of  new  linen,  saying:  "  With  twenty  yards  or  so  of  that, 
you  could  make  yourself  a  little  outfit,"  Jeanne  Cremet' s 
face  wrinkled  up  with  emotion. 

M  To  think  that  I  had  almost  the  whole  of  my  wedding 
trousseau  still !  .  .  ."  Her  hands  wandered  sadly  over 
the  linen.  She  saw  again  in  imagination  the  smoking 
ruins  of  her  home.  And  suddenly,  unable  to  bear  the 
silence  of  this  house  where  she  knew  no  one,  she  heard 
in  a  rush  of  memories  the  noise  of  the  sabots  clattering 
along  the  little  street,  the  neighbours  calling  to  one 
another  from  their  doors  or  windows;  she  remembered 
the  general  esteem  which  she  enjoyed,  because  of  her 
skill  in  cooking;  she  saw  once  more  the  fishing  nets 
hanging  up  to  dry  in  the  shed;  a  triangle  of  sea  green 
between  the  gables,  and  the  sound  of  the  well  remembered 
patois;  all  the  familiar  sounds,  all  the  familiar  faces,  the 
pavements  where  she  had  walked  a  thousand  times,  the 
cream  put  to  rise  on  the  stand,  the  sugared  cakes  just 


POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR  209 

out  of  the  oven,  her  grandchildren  coming  home  from 
school,  rushing  upstairs  four  steps  at  a  time.  ...  All 
these  dear  memories  rose  up  and  clutched  at  her  heart. 
.  .  .  She  felt  she  wanted  to  be  alone  so  that  she  might 
cry  like  a  child. 

Cremet,  fortunately,  was  a  great  smoker,  so  Potterat 
set  aside  for  him  one  row  of  his  pipe-rack,  containing  two 
cherry-wood  pipes,  and  got  him  some  Dutch  tobacco. 
He  took  him  down  to  the  border  of  the  Lake,  and  pointed 
out  its  beauties.  He  introduced  him,  too,  to  Perrin,  the 
old  fisherman.  And  they  went  together  to  take  up  the 
nets.  At  last  one  evening,  as  they  lay  just  off  St.  Sulpice, 
taking  his  pipe  out  of  his  mouth,  Cremet  spoke.  He 
described  the  fish  he  used  to  catch,  his  traps  for  them, 
the  storms  they  used  to  have,  etc.  Playing  up  to  him, 
Perrin  retorted: 

"  Wait  until  you  see  what  we  can  do  in  the  way  of 
storms  !  Water  is  the  same  everywhere :  it  is  always  at 
the  mercy  of  the  winds.  Fresh  or  salt,  it  knows  how  to 
get  back  on  you.  .  .  .  And  those  big  fish  that  you  catch 
up  there  ?  .  .  .  They  would  be  a  bit  coarse,  and  hard, 
I'm  thinking  ?  .  .  ." 

"  Hard  !  .  .  .  As  tender  as  butter  !  .  .  .  they  melt  in 
your  mouth  almost !  .  .  ." 

'  They  are  full  of  bones,  I  doubt.  And  besides  they 
would  have  the  taste  of  the  salt  water.  .  .  .  Ours  are 
fresh  and  sweet  to  the  taste.  ..." 

'  You're  wrong  there.  .  .  .  They're  delicious,  our  fish 
.  .  .  and  our  people  know  what's  good  to  eat.  ..." 

■  You  must  make  plenty  of  money,  at  that  rate.  .  .  ." 

"  You're  wrong  again.  Everything  is  very  cheap  with 
us.     Good  quality,  but  cheap.  ..." 

"  In  Switzerland,  you  get  a  good  price  for  things,  but 
living  is  very  dear.     You  think  you  are  rich,  and  you 
find  you  have  nothing." 
Then  they  were  silent  again.    Cremet  gazed  at  the 

14 


210  POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR 

rounded  shores,  the  white  houses  dotted  about  the  hill- 
sides under  the  December  sky.  And  suddenly  deep 
depression  fell  upon  him  again,  as  he  thought  of  his 
bleeding  country. 

"  You  are  very  sheltered  here.  ..."  There  was  a  hint 
of  something  like  jealousy  in  his  voice. 

"  We  are.  Almost  too  much  so,"  went  on  Potterat. 
"Of  course,  nobody  wants  war  .  .  .  perhaps,  indeed,  we 
don't  think  of  it  quite  enough.  But  we're  asleep.  .  .  . 
We're  far  too  trustful  of  strangers.  .  .  .  We  think  that 
everything  is  well  because  the  wine  is  good.  .  .  .  The 
volcano  is  there,  but  we  don't  see  it.  .  .  ." 

"  You'll  be  treated  the  same  !  ...  see  if  you  aren't  !  . . ." 
said  Louis  Cremet,  with  a  sort  of  satisfaction. 

"  What's  that  you  say  ?  .  .  .  What  about  our  moun- 
tains ?  .  .  .  We've  got  some  fine  fellows  up  there,  too,  to 
guard  them.  .  .  .  Fighting  is  in  our  blood,  you  know.  .  .  . 
And  we  are  the  best  shots  in  the  world.  At  800  yards 
we  never  miss  a  bottle.  .  .  .  You  Belgians  have  been 
brave  beyond  words,  heroic.  .  .  .  You  certainly  did 
the  right  thing.  .  .  .  But  we,  if  they  attack  us,  we'll 
go  for  them  like  a  pack  of  mad  dogs.  ..." 

The  old  man  did  not  reply,  and  the  conversation 
dropped  again. 

Madame  Potterat,  like  the  clever  hostess  she  was,  did 
her  utmost  to  vary  the  diet,  as  far,  at  least,  as  she  could 
with  her  store  of  farinaceous  foods;  but  one  day,  when 
the  two  women  were  alone,  Madame  Cremet  said  to  her : 

"  You  go  in  for  German  cookery,  I  see.  Macaroni,  rice, 
sauces.  ..." 

Madame  Potterat  reddened: 

"  German  cookery  ?  .  .  .  Not  at  all ! . . .  We  like  simple, 
wholesome  food,  that's  all.  ..." 

"  Oh,  I  wasn't  criticizing  it.  .  .  .  But  your  coffee  now  ? 
.  .  .  Won't  you  let  me  make  it  for  you  some  time  in  the 
Belgian  way  ?  .  .  ." 


POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR  211 

Madame  Potterat  boiled  inwardly.  Were  not  the 
Vaudois  women  noted  throughout  the  world  for  their 
good  coffee  ?  .  .  .    What  an  insult !  .  .  . 

"  Look  here  !"  the  old  woman  said.  "  I  have  knitted 
a  strainer.  You  fix  it  into  the  coffee-pot,  and  the  coffee 
percolates  through  it.  You  pour  the  boiling  water  in 
twice.  And  above  all,  you  mustn't  grind  your  coffee 
too  fine." 

Never  before  had  Madame  Potterat  seen  the  old  woman 
so  bright  and  animated.  She  rolled  up  her  sleeves  over 
her  elbows  with  an  air  of  authority.  A  tinge  of  red  came 
into  her  cheeks,  her  blue-grey  eyes  shone  with  animation, 
the  eyes  of  a  worker  who  finds  again  in  the  practice  of 
her  accustomed  art  some  joy  in  life. 

'What  impudence!  .  .  .  What  impudence!  .  .  ." 
thought  Madame  Potterat,  as  she  watched  the  old 
woman  moving  to  and  fro  in  her  kitchen.  "  What  a 
good  thing  that  David  is  not  here  !  .  .  .  I  don't  think 
there  is  another  woman  but  me  who  would  drink  her 
coffee  after  this  !  .  .  ." 

Six  o'clock.  The  men  came  in  famishing,  after  their 
fishing.  They  had  excellent  appetites,  found  everything 
delicious,  and  did  not  notice  the  sharp  glances  the  two 
women  gave  them  as  they  raised  their  cups  to  their  lips. 

"  Don't  you  notice  anything,  Louis  ?" 

Louis  raised  his  pale  eyes  in  silence. 

"  Oh  yes.     It's  real  coffee  this  time." 

"  I  should  think  so  !" 

"  Haven't  we  always  had  real  coffee  ?  .  .  .'"  asked 
Potterat  innocently. 

"  Yes,  Monsieur  Potterat,  but  not  coffee  made  in  the 
Belgian  way." 

Potterat  guessed  at  once  that  these  embarrassed  words 
hid  some  jealousy  of  rival  cooks. 

■■'  My  word  !"  said  he.  "  It  is  good,  this  coffee  !  And 
yesterday's  was  just  as  good;  and  to-morrow's  will  be 


212  POTTER  AT  AND  THE  WAR 

good  too.  ...    I  think  that  you  are,  both  of  you,  regular 
cordons  bleus.     It's  good  luck  to  have  two  in  one  house." 

Then,  as  Madame  Potterat  reddened  a  little,  her 
husband  added  to  himself:  "These  feminine  jealousies! 
.  .  .  One  has  to  deal  with  them  as  one  does  with  the 
severely  wounded.  .  .  .  Keep  quiet,  and  look  at 
them  lovingly.  ..." 

That  same  evening,  he  tried  his  diplomatic  powers  on 
his  wife. 

"  You  must  be  reasonable,  you  know.  Every  country 
has  its  own  specialities.  And  even  variations  of 
the  same  speciality  may  be  excellent.  .  .  .  One  good 
thing  does  not  hurt  another.  .  .  t .  These  old  people, 
remember,  are  poor  old  things  who  have  escaped  out  of 
hell  into  an  unknown  world.  They  have  their  own 
customs,  their  own  tastes,  their  own  ideas.  .  To  them  the 
Dent  du  Midi  is  nothing,  nor  our  pictures  that  mean  so 
much  to  us,  nor  even  our  way  of  making  coffee,  good 
as  it  is.  .  .  .  Supposing  we  had  had  to  fly  to  Belgium, 
don't  you  think  we  should  talk  about  our  confectionery 
and  our  plum  cakes  ?  .  .  .  Imagine  us  at  Ostend  in 
December,  amongst  people  who  lived  on  oysters  and 
salmon,  and  we  having  nothing  to  do  all  day  long 
but  sit  and  twiddle  our  thumbs  !  .  .  .  Why,  I'm  sure 
we  should  get  queer  and  cranky,  and  half  crazy.  .  .  . 
We've  got  to  realize  that  our  things  that  we  love 
don't  appeal  to  them  at  all.  They  have  nailed  up 
on  the  walls  of  their  room  that  old  postcard  in  which 
they  can  see  a  window  of  their  house;  and  a  photo- 
graph of  King  Albert,  ...  a  fine-looking  man  he  is, 
too ;  and  a  crucifix.  And  they'd  rather  have  those  things 
than  all  our  pictures.  These  make  them  feel,  you  see, 
as  if  they  still  had  their  King,  their  religion,  and  their 
home.  .  .  .  And  if,  thanks  to  you,  they  are  able  to 
feel  that  they  are  drinking  their  own  coffee  too,  why, 
so  much  the  better.  .  .  .    We  ought  to  put  up  cheer- 


POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR  213 

fully  with  any  of  their  little  fancies.  ...  If  they  begin 
to  boast  about  their  things,  it  is  to  prove  to  us  that 
they  are  not  just  vagabonds.  .  .  .  After  all,  these 
Belgians  have  sacrificed  themselves  for  us,  and  for 
Europe,  and  it  isn't  much  to  ask  of  us,  that  we  should 
be  willing  to  sacrifice  ourselves  a  little  for  them  in  return. 
...  I  feel  so  sorry  for  them  both,  but  especially  for  the 
old  man,  who  never  says  a  word.  I  happened  to  look 
over  at  him  the  other  evening,  and  I  watched  him -for  a 
minute  or  two.  ...  He  sat  there  watching  the  smoke  of 
his  pipe  curling  up,  then  he  winked  a  tear  away,  and 
stretched  out  his  hands  to  the  fire,  evidently  remembering 
things.  .  .  .  Come,  they're  good  old  creatures,  don't 
you  think  so  ?  .  .  ." 

M  Yes,  indeed." 

"  Well,  that's  all  right.  And  look  here,  my  dear,  I 
should  let  the  poor  old  woman  brew  her  coffee  as  she 
likes.  It  pleases  her,  and  doesn't  make  our  way  any 
the  worse." 

At  four  o'clock  Carlo  burst  in  from  school,  threw  his 
satchel  on  a  chair,  cut  himself  a  slice  of  bread  and  butter, 
and  devoured  it,  hopping  about  all  the  time;  tried  on, 
mincing  and  grimacing,  a  hat  of  his  mother's,  took 
laughingly  the  rap  on  the  head  she  gave  him,  and 
then  imitated  his  master,  who  was  very  short-sighted, 
and  had  to  hold  every  book  close  up  to  his  eyes. 
All  this  amused  the  old  woman  immensely;  she  said, 
her  voice  trembling  with  emotion:  "  Do  you  know,  that 
boy  makes  me  almost  forget  my  sorrows  !  .  .  ."  And 
when  she  heard  that  the  next  day  was  his  birthday : 

"  Oh,  do  let  me,"  she  begged — "  do  let  me  make  him 
a  tart  ?" 

With  eager  delight  she  mixed  the  paste,  her  red  cheeks 
like  winter  apples,  her  forehead,  framed  in  grey  hair, 
leaning  over  it  lovingly;  whipped  some  cream  with  tiny 


214  POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR 

straws  of  orange  peel  floating  about  in  it,  and  when  at 
last  the  tart  lay,  puffed  up  and  golden,  on  its  dish, 
ready  for  serving,  her  joy  in  activity  suddenly  departed, 
and  she  heaved  a  great  sigh. 

"  How  often  I  used  to  make  these  tarts  at  home  !  .  .  . 
Dear,  dear  !  .  .  .  But  it  is  getting  late,  I  must  run.  Are 
you  ready,  Louis  ?  .  .  .   Au  revoir,  Madame.  ..." 

Always  in  the  twilight,  the  old  couple  went  out  for  a 
walk  alone  together,  he  in  an  overcoat  of  Potterat's, 
which  had  been  considerably  taken  in  and  shortened, 
but  which  was  still  a  good  deal  too  big  for  him,  and  hung 
in  folds  on  his  chest  and  over  his  shoulders;  she,  very 
dignified  and  upright,  her  chin  held  high,  her  hands 
clasped  in  front  of  her.  Where  did  they  go  ?  .  .  .  No 
one  ever  presumed  to  ask  them,  but  on  this  particular 
evening  Potterat  took  his  stick,  and  following  them  dis- 
creetly at  a  distance,  found  himself  entering  the  Catholic 
Chapel  at  Ouchy.  There  was  a  murmur  of  prayer 
going  on,  and  after  a  little  one  could  see  the  altar,  the 
choir,  the  white  robe  of  the  Virgin,  and  the  little  round 
head  of  the  Holy  Child.  And  on  a  low  stool,  kneeling 
side  by  side,  were  the  two  old  people.  What  peaceful 
calm  !  What  silence  !  Only  this  murmur  of  prayers, 
that  star  of  light  on  the  altar.  "  Is  this  really  you, 
Potterat  ?"  he  asked  himself,  "  you  who  have  always 
considered  almost  as  unbelievers  those  whose  names  are 
not  entered  on  the  registers  of  the  Vaudois  National 
Church  ?  .  .  .  Is  it  really  you  standing  here  dreaming  in 
a  Roman  Catholic  Chapel,  with  your  eyes  fixed  on  a 
statue  of  the  Virgin  ?...'■ 

"  If  I  were  God,  I  would  send  out  my  thunder-bolts 
to  put  everyone  back  into  his  place  again,  and  ...  we 
know  who  .  .  .  into  the  dust !  ..."  he  thought.  "■  These 
poor  old  people  praying  !  It  is  touching  !  .  .  .  I'm 
sure  their  prayers  are  heard.  I'm  not  of  their  religion 
myself,  but  we  worship  the  same  God,  I'm  sure.  ,  .   , 


POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR  215 

The  true  God,  He  is.  .  .  .   The  other  one  is  not  much  of 
a  God.  .  .  .  All  the  same  He  is  pretty  powerful,  evidently. 
.  .  .  He  marches  with  the  victorious  armies.     He  draws 
the  sword  and  orders  the  fire  of  the  rifles.  ...   He  likes 
to  see  corpses  of  men,  of  horses,  slaughter,  and  tombstones 
with  soldiers'  caps  on  them.  .  .  .  That  God  ...  is  He  not 
far  more  likely  to  be  the  Devil  ?  .  .  .   I  shouldn't  wonder 
at  all !  .  .  .  And  He  certainly  keeps  His  disciples  up  to 
the  mark.  .  .  .  They  spread  His  propaganda.  .  .  .   They 
put  into  practice  the  precepts  of  their  master.     Perhaps 
this  is  the  beginning  of  the  end  of  the  world  !  .  .  .    It's 
possible  that  the  true  God  has  lost  heart  and  patience, 
seeing    us   all   so    bad,  and  thinks  He'll  make  a  clean 
sweep  of  the  lot !  .  .  .     There  were  too  many  painted 
women,  too  much  making  eyes,  too  much  false  hair,  too 
much  eating  and  drinking,  too  much  rushing  about  for 
pleasure.    .    .    .    And   then   people  have  killed  off   too 
many  lions  and  tigers  in  those  hot  countries,  with  their 
'  big-game  hunting,'  and  the  souls  of  these  beasts  have 
come  back  into  the  bodies  of  men  to-day.  .  .  .     And 
what  about  ourselves  ?  .'  .  .     In   theory,  the   heart    of 
a  Swiss  ought  to  be  like  a  mountain-top  amongst  his 
Alps,  where  the  wind  blows  fresh  and  free,  sweeping 
away  all  dust  and  disease.  .  .  .  That's  what  it  is  in  theory  ! 
....  In  practice,  we  put  everything  we  have  on  our 
backs  to  impress  the  crowd:  that  was  our  only  thought. 
.  .  .  We  have  signed  conventions,  and  we  have  mobilized. 
.  .  .  We  shall  have  enormous  expense,  and  mighty  little 
glory.  .  .  .    Fortunately,  we've  got  these  Belgians  to  take 
care  of;  at  the  Day  of  Judgment  they  may  serve  us 
as  a  lightning  conductor.    .    .    .    But  what  started  me 
off  on  this  train  of  thought  ?  .  .  .    Oh  yes,  it  was  seeing 
those  two  old  things  at  their  prayers.  .  .  .    Yes,  there's 
no  doubt  but  He  will  hear  their  prayers.  .  .  .    We're  not 
in  the  same  fold,  as  I  said,  but  in  this  particular  case,  I 
agree  with  them  absolutely.  ...    Ah  well,  I'm  glad  I 


216  POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR 

followed  them.  .  .  .  They  are  evidently  good  people.  In 
their  way,  too,  they  are  righting  for  their  country.  .  .  . 
They  are  not  ashamed  to  bow  the  knee.  .  .  .  All  honour 
to  them  !" 

The  table  was  laid  when  he  reached  home,  and  Potterat 
was  glad  to  see  that  his  wife  had  evidently  recovered 
her  wonted  kindliness  and  good  humour.  ..."  These 
women  !"  thought  he  to  himself.  "  A  mere  nothing  turns 
them  to  vinegar,  and  just  as  little  makes  them  all  smiles 
again ;  they  cry  their  hearts  out  for  a  shadow,  and  revive 
like  a  flower  under  a  ray  of  sunshine.  Now  we  men,  if 
anything  upsets  us,  we  are  out  of  temper  the  whole  day, 
at  least. . . .  Women  are  more  changeable,  more  impres- 
sionable, more  like  the  wind.  .  .  .  They're  up  and  down 
again  all  in  a  minute.  .  .  .  What  a  temperament !  .  .  . 
But  it's  half  the  charm  of  woman  after  all !  .  .  ." 

Carlo,  the  hero  of  the  day,  sat  in  the  place  of  honour 
facing  the  smoking  dishes,  and  the  tart,  round  which 
burnt  merrily  nine  candles,  their  dancing  flames  reflected 
in  the  excited  eyes  of  the  boy,  in  the  grey  eyes  of 
Louis  Cremet,  in  the  melancholy  eyes  of  his  wife,  in 
the  loving  motherly  eyes  of  Madame  Potterat,  and  the 
round  merry  eyes  of  her  husband ;  and  also  in  the  silver 
and  glass  of  the  table.  They  ate  and  drank,  then  when 
they  had  almost  finished,  a  specially  fine  bottle  of  wine 
Was  opened,  and  Potterat  raised  his  glass. 

"  I  want  to  say  two  or  three  words,  not  a  speech,  you 
know,  but  just  as  they  come  to  me.  Here's  your  very 
good  health,  my  boy  !  May  you  grow  big  and  strong, 
and  for  that  you  must  eat  plenty  of  bread.  In  the  same 
way  you  must  feed  and  furnish  your  mind ;  the  man  who 
has  a  well-filled  mind  makes  fewer  mistakes  in  life  than 
the  man  whose  impressions  run  about  in  his  brain  without 
anything  to  fix  them  there.  You  don't  want  to  stuff  it 
too  full,  of  course,  nor  on  the  other  hand  to  let  it  shrivel 
up  because  it  is  empty;  you  need  not  go  contrary  to 


POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR  217 

everyone  else,  but  it's  better  not  to  conform  too  rigidly 
to  those  around  you.  Everything  is  a  question  of 
proportion,  of  equilibrium.  Half  heart,  half  reason,  is 
a  very  good  formula  as  a  guide  to  conduct.  And  if 
you  must  lean  more  to  one  side  than  the  other,  let 
it  be  to  the  side  of  heart.  But  you  mustn't  listen 
to  your  heart  alone,  or  you  would  die  of  indignation 
every  day  of  your  life.  .  .  .  We  can't  forget  that  we 
have  here  with  us  at  this  table  some  guests  who  have  no 
longer  a  home  of  their  own;  we  can't  forget  the  war.  .  .  . 
We  are  warm  and  comfortable  here,  with  plenty  of  good 
food  and  drink  before  us,  a  good  bed  awaits  each  of  us, 
and  sound,  refreshing  sleep. . . .  Yet,  at  this  very  moment, 
think  how  many  there  are  in  the  trenches,  in  water  up 
to  their  knees,  covered  with  mud  and  thick  clay,  fighting 
for  justice  and  liberty  for  all  nations  !  .  .  .  How  many 
there  are,  too,  under  the  earth,  resting  there  until  the 
last  day  !  .  .  .  How  many  more  will  die  to-night !  .  .  . 
Thinking  of  all  this,  as  a  consistent  Swiss,  as  a  Republican, 
a  democrat,  I  drink  to  the  health  of  General  J  off  re  ! 
May  the  true  God,  the  only  One,  breathe  into  him  wisdom 
and  judgment !  .  .  .  May  he  purify  the  world  as  one 
scrubs  a  dirty  floor:  three  buckets  of  water  in  a  volley, 
then  the  scrubbing-brush  and  plenty  of  elbow  grease  ! 
Afterwards,  how  it  shines  !  And  to  make  a  still  more 
thorough  job  of  it,  he  may  pass  a  knife  between  the 
boards  to  clear  out  anything  which  shouldn't  be  there. 
In  other  words,  may  Belgium  rise  again  from  her  ashes, 
and  flourish  once  more  over  her  ruins  !  .  .  .  And  may  all 
other  little  nations,  her  sisters,  raise  their  hats  to  little 
Belgium,  who  sacrificed  herself  for  the  safety  of  the  rest 
of  the  world ;  to  the  Belgians,  who  kept  their  word,  who 
respected  their  treaties,  who  did  not  say, '  Necessity  knows 
no  law  !'  but  rather, '  Honour  knows  no  exceptions  !'  .  .  . 
For  my  part,  in  face  of  this  outraged  honour,  in  face  of 
these  citizens  fighting  to  defend  their  country,  unjustly 


218  POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR 

attacked,  it  is  impossible  for  me  to  declare  myself  neutral. 
.  .  .  My  friends,  I  drink  your  health  ! .  . ."  And  Potterat 
emptied  his  glass. 

"  You  are  a  good  man,"  responded  Louis  Cremet 
seriously. 

In  spite  of  their  efforts  the  little  fete  seemed 
melancholy  to  the  hearts  of  the  exiles.  Presently  the 
candles  were  extinguished.  The  evening  paper  arrived. 
Sensational  headlines  announced  '  Bombardment  of 
Ypres  !'  .  .  .  and  the  wind  whistled  drearily  against  the 
windows.     Suddenly  Potterat  raised  his  head. 

"Do  you  feel  terribly  bored  here  ?  .  .  ." 

Immediately  he  felt  painfully  conscious  that  this  was 
not  exactly  the  most  tactful  way  to  begin  what  he  had 
meant  to  say,  and  he  threw  a  glance  at  his  wife,  mutely 
imploring  her  aid.  She  knitted  steadily,  however, 
keeping  her  eyes  lowered,  so  he  went  on: 

"  Perhaps  I'm  meddling  with  what  is  none  of  my 
business.  .  .  .  Don't  think  I  don't  understand  you,  for  I 
do.  .  .  .  I  should  feel  it  difficult,  myself,  to  settle  down 
in  a  foreign  land,  and  at  the  seaside  too.  .  .  .  Your  way 
of  living  is  different  from  ours,  you  look  at  everything  in 
a  different  way,  you  think  of  the  past  constantly.  ...  It 
is  very  natural,  and  we  sympathize  with  you.  ..."  The 
old  people's  eyes  had  rilled  with  tears,  and  Madame 
Potterat  interposed: 

"  Oh,  do  stop,  David  !  .  .  .    It  is  too  painful !  ;  .  ." 

But  Potterat  had  dragged  his  chair  up  closer  to  the 
little  sofa,  and  laid  his  big  hand  on  the  stiff  arm  of  the 
old  fisherman. 

"  Excuse  me,  won't  you  ?  .  .  .  My  intentions  are  good. 
...  I  want  you  to  try  and  like  Switzerland.  .  .  .  Some 
people  here  are  certainly  contaminated  by  the  microbe. 
.  .  .  Well,  they  are  to  be  pitied.  .  .  .  But  the  rest  of 
us,  and  the  most  of  us,  are  secretly  boiling  with 
indignation,  though  we  perhaps  seem  to  be  taking   it 


POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR  219 

all  somewhat  calmly.  ...  It's  so  difficult  for  us  to 
realize  fully  all  at  once  all  it  means,  the  horror  of  this 
war.  .  .  .  But  I  assure  you  the  injustice  of  it  makes  us 
furious,  it  makes  us  ill .  .  .  we  can  never  forgive  it.  .  .  .  It 
is  unforgivable.  ..." 

At  this  moment  the  door-bell  rang,  and  presently 
Carlo  ushered  in  Vidoudez,  the  companion  of  many  a 
fishing  excursion,  the  enthusiastic  office  clerk  whose 
fingers  were  always  stained  with  red  ink,  .  .  .  but  a 
Vidoudez  dejected,  worn-looking,  unkempt.  Somewhat 
irritated  at  his  conversation  being  thus  interrupted, 
Potterat  looked  at  the  intruder,  then,  vaguely  touched 
by  his  forlorn  appearance,  he  rose. 

"  Hallo  !  What  brings  you  along  ?.  .  .  .  Let  me  intro- 
duce you  to  our  Belgian  friends — Madame  Cremet,  a  first- 
rate  cook,  her  coffee  is  a  dream;  and  her  husband,  in 
ordinary  times  a  fisherman,  but  for  the  present  rudely 
thrown  out  of  work  by  some  wicked  people  whom  we 
need  not  name.  ..." 

They  drew  up  their  seats  again  to  the  table.  Vidoudez, 
shy  and  nervous  under  the  blaze  of  the  unshaded  electric 
light,  rubbed  his  hands  together.  At  last,  in  a  gruff 
voice,  he  said : 

"  I  came  to  ask  you  a  favour.  ..." 

An  unfortunate  beginning  !  Potterat  thought  uneasily, 
'  How  unlucky !  I  have  just  enough  to  carry  me 
through  the  month.' 

"I  want  you  to  give  me  your  advice  as  a  friend  .  .  ." 
he  went  on.  "  This  is  the  affair.  ...  My  salary,  you 
know,  has  been  reduced  .  .  .  and  prices  have  gone  up  .  .  . 
and  my  eldest  daughter,  Olga,  the  typist,  has  just  been 
dismissed  from  her  place  ...  not  enough  work,  they  told 
her  .  .  .  and  yet  expenses  go  on  .  .  .  but  it's  impossible 
to  make  both  ends  meet.  ...  I  don't  know  what  on 
earth  to  do.  .  .  .  This  evening  I  said  to  myself,  '  I'll 
go  and  ask   Potterat's   advice.'  .  ,  .     What  am    I   to 


220  POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR 

do    about   the   girl  ?    .    .    .     How    can    I    find    her    a 
place?  .  .  ." 

"  Isn't  she  engaged  to  young  Decrausaz,  of  the 
I  nstrumentale  ? 

"  She  is,  but  he  is  mobilized.  We  have  not  seen  him 
since  the  2nd  August  .  .  .  and  when  he  comes  back,  will 
he  get  his  old  place  again  ?  .  .  .  Everything's  at  a  stand- 
still. .  .  .  My  wife  is  so  worried  by  it  all  that  when  I  came 
away,  she  and  Olga  were  both  crying.  .  .  .  We  can't  go 
on  like  this,  that's  certain.  ..." 

Potterat  smiled  dryly. 

"  Do  you  remember  how  we  were  all  as  grand  as 
milords  last  July  ?  .  .  .  The  poets  are  right, '  The  beautiful 
days  are  short.'  ...  H'm,  so  typewriting  is  off,  is  it  ?  .  .  . 
My  word  !  The  only  things  that  go  on  as  usual,  it  seems 
to  me,  are  eating,  sleeping,  washing  up  dishes.  ...  Do 
you  understand  ?  .  .  ." 

No,  Vidoudez  did  not  understand. 

"  It's  plain  enough.  ...  Up  to  now,  your  girl  has  been 
able  to  keep  her  hands  white.  She  has  gone  '  Tra-ta-ta  ' 
on  her  little  machine  .  .  .  her  husband,  when  she  marries, 
however,  will  want  his  dinner.  .  .  .  Look  here,  Vidoudez, 
be  practical ;  go  and  buy  her  a  cookery  book,  and  half  a 
dozen  aprons,  and  place  her  in  a  good  house.  .  .  .  Yes, 
as  cook,  housemaid,  anything.  .  .  .  She  will  get  good 
wages,  and  she  will  learn  to  be  a  good  housekeeper.  ..." 

Vidoudez  bridled  a  little. 

"  You  don't  know  Olga.  . .  .  No,  it  would  be  no  use. ..." 

"  Who  is  master  in  your  house  ?  Give  her  an  order, 
that  princess  of  yours,  and  make  her  understand  she's 
got  to  obey.  There  must  be  authority  everywhere. 
You  give  the  command.  This  is  war-time  now,  you 
know." 

Poor  Vidoudez  bent  almost  double  and  rubbed  his 
hands  together  with  a  sound  like  crackling  paper. 

"  Jsfo?  you  don't  know  her.  ,  ,  .    Her  mother  and  she 


POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR  221 

would  never  think  of  it  for  a  moment.  .  .  .  She  might  go 
as  a  companion,  perhaps.  .  .  .  Don't  you  know  of  anyone 
who  wants  a  companion  ?  .  .  ." 

"  As  far  as  I'm  concerned,  I'm  my  own  companion.  .  .  . 
Look  here,  my  dear  fellow,  it  seems  to  me  that  you're 
trying  to  do  the  impossible.  We've  all  done  with  luxuries 
for  goodness  knows  how  long.  There  are  only  three  ways 
of  making  a  living :  either  you  must  have  private  means, 
or  you  must  beg,  or  you  must  work.  .  .  .  Give  your 
princess  her  choice.  ..." 

'  Then  you  don't  know  of  anyone  ?  .  .  ." 

"  Oh  yes,  I  know  crowds  of  people,  but  no  one  who 
wants  to  take  on  a  typist.  ...  I  tell  you  cookery  is  the 
best  thing.  .  .  .  Let  her  learn  to  cook.  .  .  .  It's  a  good 
trade.  ...  I  myself  have  learnt  to  milk  cows  this 
autumn.  ..." 

Vidoudez  got  up.  "  Well,  I'll  speak  to  them  about  it. 
.   .   .     Oh,  these  scenes  !     They'll  be  the  death  of  me!" 

"  Well,  I  hope  to  hear  you  get  on  .  .  .  but  in  any  case, 
let  me  advise  you  to  keep  your  womenfolk  well  in  hand. 
Be  firm  with  them.  When  they  are  good,  you  may 
loosen  the  reins  a  moment,  but  without  taking  your 
eyes  off  them.  ...  At  the  least  chance,  they'll  break 
loose.  Look  out,  they  may  already  be  feminists !  .  .  . 
and  nothing  could  be  worse  than  that.  ..." 

When  Potterat  came  back  into  the  room,  Cremet  took 
his  pipe  out  of  his  mouth,  a  thing  he  only  did  on  great 
occasions.  Without  making  any  remarks  on  the  troubles 
of  Vidoudez,  he  replied  to  what  Potterat  had  been  saying 
previously. 

"  You  ask  me  if  I  am  bored  ?  .  .  .  Well,  we  are  very 
comfortable  here  with  you,  and  you  have  been  only  too 
kind  to  us;  we  are  most  grateful.  .  .  .  But  I  must  confess 
that  the  time  does  seem  long.  I  pine  like  an  old  cat.  .  .  . 
I  sometimes  feel  that  I  would  willingly  die  the  next  day  if 
I  could  only  see  our  old  place  once  again.  .  .  .   And  then, 


222  POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR 

it's  terrible  having  no  news  of  the  children,  or  of  our 
grandchildren.  .  .  .  Nothing  !  .  .  .  Not  a  word  !  .  .  .  It 
is  dreadful !  We  seem  to  have  left  them  in  hell !  .  .  .  I 
feel  just  like  a  rat  driven  out  of  its  hole  by  floods  !  .  .  ." 

Jeanne  Cremet  clasped  her  hands. 

"  Oh,  but  the  time  is  long  !  .  .  .  Long  and  weary  !  .  .  . 
Four  of  our  own  children,  eighteen  grandchildren  !  .  .  . 
One  of  them  is  at  Calais,  two  are  in  England.  .  .  .  But  the 
others  ?  .  .  .  Where  are  they  ?  .  .  .  Shall  we  ever  see  them 
again  ?  .  .  ." 

Before  this  despair,  Potterat's  anger  against  all  this 
brutality  rose. 

"  Oh  !  the  whole  world  is  in  darkness  !  .  .  .  One 
can't  understand  it  at  all.  What  a  scattering  of  families  ! 
.  .  .  What  fires  !  What  deaths  !  .  .  .  Now,  if  we  were 
invaded  like  that,  I  know  what  I  should  do.  I  should 
take  four  down  to  the  edge  of  the  Lake  one  evening, 
and  I  should  say  to  them,  '  Just  see  how  clear  the  water 
is,'  and  suddenly,  zuh  !  ...  in  they'd  go  !  ...  all  four  of 
them,  and  me  after  them,  so  as  not  to  be  hanged  next 
day.  Then  at  the  resurrection,  when  I  should  come  up 
dripping  out  of  the  Lake,  holding  my  four  by  the  hand, 
and  the  recording  angel  would  call,  '  Potterat !'  .  .  . 
f  Present !  Here  I  am,  Lord,  with  the  four  that  Thou 
gavest  me  !'  .  .  .  '  Four  ?  .  .  .  Thou  hast  been  faithful 
over  a  few  things.  .  .  .  That's  well !  Sit  there,  good 
and  faithful  servant !  .  .  .  '  " 


CHAPTER  X 

It  was  a  grey  day  in  February.  Grey  out  of  doors,  and 
grey  indoors.  The  newspapers  were  filled  with  the  usual 
tales  of  the  trenches,  and  the  daily  slaughter.  Potterat, 
when  asked  by  Sauer,  whom  he  met  on  the  stairs,  how 
things  were  going,  replied : 

"  Oh,  they're  going  on.  .  .  .  I  don't  know  whether  one 
ought  to  say  '  Fortunately  '  or  '  Unfortunately.' 

"  He  is  quite  overwrought,  quite  nervous  and  un- 
strung," said  Madame  Potterat  to  Madame  Cremet  one 
day.  "  He  ought  to  have  something  to  occupy  him.  .  .  . 
He  broods.  .  .  .  The  war,  always  this  war.  ...  He  dreams 
of  victory,  but  in  the  morning  the  news  is  always  the 
same.  ...    It  wears  one  out.  ..." 

"It  is  long  !  .  .  .  a  weary  long  time  !  .  .  ."  moaned 
Madame  Cremet.  "  One  hardly  dares  to  hope  for  any 
end.  ...   It  is  long  and  sad  !  .  .  .  And  this  grey  sky  !  .  .  ." 

Ten  times  a  day  she  would  repeat  this.  Every  time 
she  looked  at  anyone,  she  seemed  to  be  asking  them 
eternally:  '  Do  you  think  it  will  be  over  soon  ?'  .  .  .  And 
as  no  one  ever  replied,  she  would  take  up  her  knitting 
again,  with  a  great  sigh. 

Potterat,  having  nothing  to  do,  would  wander  aimlessly 
along  the  roads,  dragging  his  low  spirits  and  his  anxiety 
with  him.  He  generally  found  himself  at  Bigarreau's 
sooner  or  later,  in  the  course  of  his  walk.  With  him,  at 
any  rate,  he  could  discuss  the  war.  They  were  of  one 
mind  about  it,  and  had  the  same  hopes,  the  same  plans, 
the  same  reservations,  the  same  fears.  Both  were  rather 
given   to   talking   largely;    carried   away   by   their  en- 

223 


224  POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR 

thusiasm,  they  would  suddenly  come  down  with  a  crash 
to  the  hard  rock  of  reality.  They  recovered  their  spirits 
very  quickly,  however,  and  began  climbing  the  ladder 
again,  rung  after  rung.  On  this  grey  but  mild  day  of 
February,  they  chatted  together  as  they  went  round  the 
beehives. 

"  Listen  !  .  .  .  They  are  beginning  to  buzz  already.  .  .  . 
They  are  talking  to  each  other,  telling  each  other  all 
their  winter  dreams.  They're  doing  now  what  J  off  re 
is  doing:  planning  out  their  spring  campaign." 

"  Spring  !"  .  .  .  The  very  word  moved  them.  .  .  . 
What  it  would  be  like  to  be  a  bee  in  the  spring  !  To 
rush  out  of  the  hive,  into  the  sun,  to  roll  oneself  in  golden 
dust,  to  drink  in  honey  and  perfume,  to  brush  the 
gay  wings  of  the  butterflies  with  their  more  sober  wings, 
to  be  a  welcome  visitor  to  all  the  flowers,  and  to  die,  at 
last,  at  the  bottom  of  a  lily-cup  !  .  .  .  How  infinitely  better 
than  the  life  of  human  beings,  in  this  mad  century !  .  .  . 

"  These  bees,  you  know,  they  set  us  a  fine  example. 
They  work  hard,  they  are  orderly,  and  clean,  and  neat; 
they  rise  early,  and  go  to  bed  early,  and  they  are  obedient 
.  .  .  the  queen  has  only  to  give  a  wink  of  the  eye  for  all 
the  rest  to  rush  to  do  her  will.  .  .  .  They  have  no  use  for 
grumblers  in  a  hive  .  .  .  nor  idlers,  those  people  who  are 
born  tired.  .  .  ." 

But  whatever  they  talked  about,  they  came  round, 
sooner  or  later,  to  the  war. 

"  I  wonder,"  said  Bigarreau,  "  if  it  wouldn't  be  possible 
to  make  use  of  bees  in  war  ?  .  .  .  Suppose  one  put  a  kilo 
or  so  of  them  in  a  shell !  Can't  you  see  that  shell  arriving 
in  a  trench  ?  .  .  .  That  swarm  of  angry  bees  !  .  .  .  And 
all  those  fellows  stung  in  the  face,  in  the  neck,  up  their 
sleeves  and  trousers.  .  .  .  Imagine  a  man  trying  to  shoot 
with  a  bee-sting  in  his  eye  !  .  .  .  Think  what  a  sharp 
lookout  you'd  be  likely  to  keep  with  three  or  four  angry 
bees  inside  your  tunic  !  .  .  ." 


POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR  225 

"  Ah,  and  the  worst  place  of  all  is  when  they  sting 
you  on  the  nose  just  between  the  two  nostrils,"  added 
Potterat.  "  That  happened  to  me  once,  and  my  word, 
I  thought  it  was  all  up  with  me  for  a  minute  or  two.  .  .  . 
It's  not  half  a  bad  idea  of  yours,  that  of  a  shell  filled  with 
bees.  .  .  .  We  ought  to  drop  a  line  to  J  off  re.  ...  He  can't 
think  of  everything.  ..." 

Soon  they  were  as  usual  wildly  excited  over  the 
strategy  of  the  Russians,  firing  at  the  calm  horizon  with 
wide  sweeping  gestures,  half  closing  their  eyes  to  aim  at  the 
sun,  arguing  about  the  rival  merits  of  a  frontal  attack  or  a 
flank  attack.  .  .  .  Bigarreau  drew  Potterat  towards  the 
toolshed,  against  the  wall  of  which  hung  a  map  of  Europe. 

"  These  Russians,  they  always  go  too  much  in  a  mass. 
.  .  .  They  want  more  personal  initiative.  .  .  .  What's 
the  good  of  three  million  men  crowded  together  ?  .  .  . 
The  others  send  out  patrols  and  throw  bodies  of 
cavalry  on  the  wings,  and  there  you  are.  .  .  .  Now, 
if  I  were  Duke  Nicholas,  I  should  take  up  a  position 
more  to  the  north.  .  .  .  That  country  is  full  of  lakes.  .  .  . 
Just  the  thing  !  .  .  .  All  you've  got  to  do  is  to  fortify 
the  ground  between  them,  and  there  you  have  a  base  of 
attack,  and  if  that  fails,  a  base  of  retreat." 

It  was  Bigarreau's  plan,  this,  and  then  Potterat 
expounded  his  views. 

"  In  my  opinion,  it's  in  Serbia  that  the  great  offensive 
ought  to  be  made.  .  .  .  They  ought  to  send  troops,  and 
guns,  and  munitions  there  .  .  .  secretly,  of  course.  .  .  . 
And  while  this  is  being  done,  the  Russians  engage  them 
in  the  north.  Then,  when  all  is  ready,  J  off  re  goes  off  to 
Serbia  in  a  destroyer,  takes  over  command,  and  attacks 
the  Austrians  in  the  rear.  .  .  .  Nothing  demoralizes  a 
country  so  quickly  as  to  surprise  it  in  the  rear.  ..." 

Their  eager  fingers,  on  the  map,  followed  river-courses, 
crossed     mountains,     zigzagged     across     plains.      Here 

Bigarreau  objected. 

15 


226  POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR 

"  But  in  the  plains  you  can't  conceal  your  movements 
as  you  can  in  the  mountains.  .  .  .  These  aeroplanes  see 
everything.  ..." 

"  Oh,  we'd  bring  them  down  with  a  few  shots.  .  .  . 
And  besides,  we  don't  advance  marching  in  full  view 
and  upright.  We  crawl  along  the  ground.  ...  In 
our  military  manoeuvres  I  was  always  great  at 
crawling.  .  .  .". 

"With  that  stomach  of  yours?  .  .  .  That's  not 
exactly  the  game  for  you!  ..." 

"You  think  I'd  topple  over,  do  you  ?  .  .  .  Well,  look 
here  !  .  .  ."  and  Potterat  flung  himself  flat  on  the  ground, 
and  with  a  suppleness  and  agility  for  which  one  would 
certainly  not  have  given  him  credit,  and  aiding  himself 
now  and  then  with  his  hands  and  knees,  he  attacked  a 
cabbage. 

Suddenly,  a  voice  from  an  upper  window  fell  like  cold 
water  on  this  warlike  enthusiasm.  It  was  Madame 
Bigarreau's. 

"  Look  here,  you  two  would-be  soldiers,  try  to  be 
calm,  will  you  ?  .  .  .  You  make  one  shiver  to  hear  you. 
.  .  .  When  we  have  been  spared,  as  we  have  been,  you 
don't  want  to  work  yourself  up  like  that  !  .  .  .  That 
won't  do  any  good  !  .  .  .  For  my  part,  when  I  see  the 
sun  go  down  behind  the  Jura,  every  evening,  and  when 
I  think  that  it  is  going  down  over  a  country  at  war  on 
the  other  side,  I  feel  very  thankful.  .  .  .  Peace  is  a 
privilege  !  .  .  ." 

Potterat  jumped  up  hastily. 

M  Good-morning,  Madame  !  .  .  .  A  privilege,  you  say  ? 
.  .  .  Just  wait  and  see  how  that  will  end  !  Do  you 
really  think  we  ought  to  be  content  to  know  that  others 
are  fighting  for  our  principles  ?  .  .  .  Doesn't  Liberty 
concern  us  any  more  ?  .  .  .  If  the  other  small  nations  are 
invaded,  are  we  to  look  on  indifferently  ?  .  .  .  No,  no, 
that  sort  of  thing  would  lead  one  to  commit  suicide." 


POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR  227 

"  Well,  anyhow,  I'll  thank  you  not  to  excite  my 
husband  so  much.  As  it  is,  he  doesn't  know  what  he's 
doing  half  the  time  . . .  always  fussing  over  those  maps. . . . 
And  he  tears  the  paper  into  bits  when  the  news  is  not  so 
good,  and  finds  fault  with  the  staff-officers.  .  .  .  And  it's 
nothing  but  grumbling  all  the  time  now.  .  .  .  There  are 
days  when  I  wonder  if  he's  Swiss  at  all.  .  .  ." 

Bigarreau  seemed  crushed  under  this,  but  Potterat 
took  up  the  cudgels  on  his  own  and  his  friend's  behalf. 

"  My  wife  says  just  the  same  thing  about  me.  .  .  . 
Madame,  you  women  don't  understand  us,  that's  where 
it  is.  Our  patriotism  is  above  all  suspicion.  We're  too 
patriotic,  really.  In  certain  circumstances  it's  not  the 
finest  thing  to  hold  back  from  fighting.  .  .  .  Look  here, 
Madame,  suppose  someone  was  murdering  your  husband 
here,  what  would  you  say  to  me  if  I  was  to  sit  by  on  a 
chair  and  look  on,  proclaiming  my  neutrality,  hey  ?  .  .  ." 

"  Oh,  what's  the  use  of  talking  nonsense  ?  .  .  .  And  here 
I  am,  waiting  for  the  last  hour,  for  him  to  pull  me  some 
leeks  !  .  .  ." 

In  silence,  Potterat  looked  out  over  the  countryside: 
his  beloved  country,  with  its  hills  and  slopes,  over  to 
where  against  the  setting  sun  rose  the  smoke  from  little 
villages  nestling  everywhere  in  the  folds  of  the  hills, 
across  the  smiling  Lake.  .  .  . 

"  Yes,"  he  said.  "  We  have  degenerated.  .  .  .  We're 
out  of  the  storm,  and  we're  glad  of  it.  .  .  .  Well,  perhaps 
that  is  best.  .  .  .  But  plants  that  grow  in  the  shelter  of 
a  wall  are  not  always  the  most  beautiful.  .  .  .  We  ought 
to  try  and  atone  for  our  attitude  at  the  beginning.  ..." 

"  But  how  ?  .  .  ." 

"  Oh,  in  all  sorts  of  ways.  For  instance,  I  intend  to 
go  to  the  station  to  meet  all  the  trainloads  of  refugees 
coming  in,  and  the  wounded.  ...  I  shall  take  them  all  a 
packet  of  chocolate,  or  a  box  of  matches,  or  some 
liquorice,  it  doesn't  matter  what,  ...  the  great  thing 


228  POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR 

is  to  show  that  one  is  there.     And  nothing  will  prevent 
me  from  shouting  •  Liberty  for  ever  !'  .  .  ." 

Bigarreau  shook  his  head. 

"  '  Liberty  for  ever  !'  .  .  .  Why,  man,  you'll  get  your- 
self arrested  !" 

"  I  shouldn't  be  surprised.  .  .  .  They  arrested  Davel 
for  less  than  that.  ..." 

***** 

On  their  knees,  their  heads  thrust  into  open  cupboards, 
Potterat  and  his  wife  were  busily  throwing  out  on  the 
floor  armfuls  of  clothes — skirts  and  trousers,  etc.  Every 
now  and  then,  they  stood  up  and  wiped  their  foreheads: 
smiled  affectionately  at  each  other;  then  plunged  their 
heads  again  into  the  depths  of  their  respective  cupboards. 
Over  this  task  of  theirs,  they  showed  an  almost  childish 
joy  and  pride. 

"  Anyone  could  see  how  tidy  you  are  by  the  way  these 
cupboards  are  kept.  Shirts,  socks,  trousers,  drawers, 
vests,  coats,  everything  in  order  in  a  separate  pile." 

"  Well,  I  make  a  point  of  going  through  them 
thoroughly  twice  a  year,  the  old  things  as  well  as  the 
new." 

'■  And  yet  just  look  at  this  vest,  how  the  moths  have 
riddled  it  with  holes  !  Beastly  things  moths  are  !  .  .  . 
Francoise,  you'll  have  to  get  some  wool  the  same  colour 
and  darn  up  these  holes.  .  .  .  And,  by  the  way,  I  shall 
buy  some  braces  for  these  refugees.  There  is  nothing 
more  annoying  than  when  they  give  way,  and  one  has 
to  hold  up  one's  trousers  with  one's  elbows.  ..." 

"  This  cloak,  it's  almost  a  pity  it's  so  pretty  !  .  .  . 
Oh,  well,  it  doesn't  matter  .  .  .  and  besides,  one  doesn't 
want  to  give  them  only  ugly  things  !  .  .  ."  murmured 
Madame  Potterat. 

In  his  eager  enthusiasm,  Potterat  threw  into  the  heap 
half  a  dozen  waistcoats,  with  such  vigour  that  one  of  them 
lighted  on  Madame  Potterat 's  head. 


POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR  229 

"  Do  take  care  what  you're  doing  !  .  .  .  You've  half 
blinded  me  !  .  .  ." 

"  I'm  sorry  !  .  .  .  I  can't  see  what  I'm  doing,  with  my 
head  in  this  cupboard.  .  .  .  Let's  see  ?  .  .  .  Oh  no,  your 
eyes  are  all  right,  my  dear,  the  same  forget-me-nots  as 
ever.  .  .  .  Ha  !  .  .  .  Here's  Belisaire's  suit  .  .  .  that  we 
had  dyed  for  him,  do  you  remember  ?  .  .  .  Well,  I'm 
glad  that  he  can  share  in  this  too.  ..." 

In  burst  Carlo,  like  a  cannon-ball. 
'  WThat's  the  matter  ?  .  .  .    What  are  you  doing  ?  .  .  . 
Are  we  going  to  move  ?  .  .  ." 

"  No,  dear,  we're  going  to  the  station  to  meet  the 
refugees  from  the  north  of  France  as  they  pass  through." 

"  How  jolly  !  .  .  .  Mother,  may  I  give  them  some  of 
my  things  too  ?" 

"  Certainly,  dear." 

Then  what  a  brushing  up  of  collars,  smoothing  out  of 
creases,  trying  the  buttons  to  see  if  they  were  firm.  .  .  . 
And  Carlo,  before  two  sailor  suits,  copied  all  these  gestures 
exactly. 

At  three  o'clock,  the  Potterats  went  out,  carrying  be- 
tween them  a  basket  covered  with  a  clean  cloth.  Carlo 
followed,  laden  with  some  smaller  packages.  Madame 
Sauer  was  seen,  also  with  a  basket ;  and  numbers  of  other 
people  came  along  the  corridors,  laden  with  parcels  in 
white  or  brown  paper,  with  baskets  and  bags,  looking 
half  ashamed  of  their  too  visible  generosity. 

"  Don't  they  look  like  ants  carrying  their  eggs  into 
another  corner?"  said  Potterat.  "One  feels  as  if  one 
ought  not  to  look  at  them.  .  .  .  Bah  !  Why  should  we 
mind  ?  .  .  .  We're  not  robbing  our  neighbours'  hen- 
roosts. ..." 

"  Father !  There's  our  head-mistress.  What  a  big 
parcel  she's  carrying  !  .  .  ." 

"  Be  quiet,  child  !  .  .  .  Big  or  little,  all  these  parcels 
are  respectable.  .  .  .    And  no  doubt,  too,  they  have  other 


230  POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR 

things  that  you  don't  see.  .  .  .  For  instance,"  he  went 
on,  too  full  of  it  to  keep  his  secret  any  longer,  M  in  every 
pocket  of  these  clothes  I  have  put  a  little  piece  of  paper 
with  the  words  *  Courage  !  Sympathy  !  Condolences  !'  .  .  . 
It's  little  things  like  that  which  touch  people  most.*  ..." 

At  the  station,  on  the  arrival  platform,  there  was  a 
motley  crowd.  Religious  ladies  and  servants,  professors 
and  working-men,  all  furnished  with  baskets  of  food; 
gardeners  in  green  aprons,  their  pockets  filled  with 
tobacco;  little  girls,  carrying  over  their  arms  freshly 
ironed  shirts;  smart  maidens,  dangling  a  little  parcel 
from  one  finger;  labourers,  commissionnaires,  shop- 
keepers, shopgirls,  and  even  a  little  group  of  blind 
men  at  the  back  of  the  crowd,  in  charge  of  a  leader  who 
could  see.  In  this  crowd  there  were  no  bickering,  no 
shoving  elbows.  All  these  incongruous  elements  were 
united  by  the  same  human  sympathy,  as  the  many- 
coloured  flowers  in  a  meadow  blend  in  the  sun. 

"  Pardon !  Excuse  me!"  And  Potterat's  friendly 
good-humour  and  patience  carried  him  at  length  right  up 
to  the  front  of  the  crowd. 

"  Now,  watch  well,  Carlo  !  You  may  be  glad,  sixty 
years  hence,  to  be  able  to  tell  your  grandchildren  what 
you  saw  to-day.  .  .  .  Think  of  something  kind  to  say 
to  them." 

Not  far  off  stood  a  couple  in  mourning,  who  gazed 
sadly,  from  time  to  time,  at  a  basket  in  which  lay 
a  child's  outfit.  Potterat  leaned  over  and  whispered  in 
his  wife's  ear: 

"  Do  you  see  those  people,  over  there  on  the  left  ?  .  .  . 
They  are  the  Michauds.  .  .  .  They  lost  their  only  son  at 
the  New  Year,  a  boy  of  eleven.  Now  do  you  see,  they're 
giving  all  his  things.  ..."  Presently  he  added:  "  You 
know  this  is  just  like  that  day  when  the  Belgians  came. 
...  If  it  upsets  me  too  much,  I'll  have  to  clear  out,  and 
you'll  have  to  give  the  things.  ..." 


POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR  231 

Police-Constable  Boulenaz,  a  giant  with  the  face  of  a 
child,  turned  round. 

"  I  know.  ...  I  feel  just  the  same/'  he  said.  "  Yester- 
day, the  tears  poured  down  my  cheeks,  I  couldn't  help 
it  .  .  .  and  afterwards  I  felt  I'd  made  such  a  fool  of  myself 
that  I  swore  for  about  an  hour." 

They  were  still  speaking  when  the  train  appeared, 
coming  in  with  unusual  slowness;  from  every  window 
fluttered  handkerchiefs,  and  from  every  doorway  hands 
were  waved,  and  heads  thrust  out  like  bunches  of  grapes. 
Just  at  first  one  could  see  nothing  distinctly,  but  presently 
details  forced  themselves  on  the  attention.  An  old  man, 
hatless,  and  with  his  shirt  open  at  the  neck;  some  dis- 
hevelled women;  children  laughing  gaily,  as  children  do 
at  the  unwonted  excitement  of  a  journey;  babies  still  in 
arms;  their  mothers,  with  drawn  faces  and  tired  eyes; 
and  all  those  wrinkled  cheeks,  those  terror-maddened 
eyes,  sunk  in  greyish  faces,  all  that  frightful  human 
misery  passed  slowly,  slowly,  as  the  train  glided  in.  On 
each  forehead  the  drama  was  written.  .  .  .  This  old  tooth- 
less crone  seemed  to  be  still  gazing  at  brandished  rifle- 
butts,  at  the  dead  bodies  gathered  up  into  carts.  .  .  . 
This  young  woman,  by  her  petrified  immobility,  showed 
the  utter  collapse  of  her  courage  and  her  hopes ;  even  the 
little  boys  and  girls  had  not  yet  recovered  from  their 
terror.  Still  vivid  in  all  their  minds  was  the  remembrance 
of  the  blazing  homesteads,  the  ruined  churches,  the 
pattering  feet  of  their  flocks  and  herds  as  they  were 
driven  away,  the  long  wearisome  journey,  standing 
packed  together  in  cattle  trucks,  that  abominable  time 
when  they  were  herded  together  in  a  camp,  surrounded 
by  barbed  wire,  beyond  which  they  could  see  the  glitter 
of  bayonets.  .  .  .  And  the  warder  who  announced  to  them 
disaster  after  disaster  .  .  .  and  the  bells  which  were  rung 
for  every  fresh  victory  .  .  .  the  cold  nights  through  which 
one  shivered  .  .  .  and  the  soup  in  the  mornings  in  which 


232  POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR 

floated  morsels  of  green  fat.  .  .  .  Their  hearts  dulled 
in  time  by  long  suffering,  until  at  last  they  could  no 
longer  think  of  anything,  scarcely  conscious  whether 
they  were  alive  or  dead,  huddled  in  a  crowd  like  sheep 
on  the  edge  of  a  precipice,  when  the  fog  rises  from  the 
depths  beneath.  .  .  . 

Before  the  sight  of  this  misery  the  crowd  remained 
quite  silent,  as  if  it  had  just  seen  a  forest  felled  to  the 
ground  by  the  passing  of  a  cyclone,  too  deeply  moved  to 
speak,  or  to  exclaim,  unconscious  that  this  silent  emotion 
is  the  truest  sympathy.  They  were  at  peace,  they  had 
just  come  out  of  their  warm  houses.  ...  And  this  was 
some  of  the  wreckage  of  war.  These  poor  people  over- 
whelmed by  misfortune.  These  poor  old  folks  driven 
from  their  homes. 

Potterat  felt  the  tears  rush  to  his  eyes.  He  dashed 
them  away  with  his  fist.  He  could  only  repeat:  "  This 
is  awful !  It's  awful !  .  .  .  My  God  !  .  .  .  Those  poor 
children,  those  poor  old  men  and  women  !  .  .  ." 

At  the  first  moment,  then,  a  sort  of  stupor  seizes  one 
which  makes  one  stand  with  open  mouth  and  folded 
arms  and  staring  eyes,  as  if  one  had  just  had  a  blow  on 
the  head;  and  then  suddenly  the  blood  rushes  from  the 
heart  again,  rises  to  the  cheeks,  and  to  the  ends  of  the 
ringers,  which  become  active  at  once.  .  .  .  Then  the 
crowd  suddenly  rushed  forward.  All  the  baskets  and 
bags  and  parcels  were  frantically  opened,  and  presently 
the  train  was  bombarded  from  the  platform,  with  a 
continuous  stream  of  shirts,  trousers,  waistcoats,  petits 
pains,  oranges,  sausages,  dolls,  woolly  bears,  chocolate, 
sweets,  flannel,  hats,  shoes,  buttons,  cigars,  pipes,  news- 
papers, etc.  There  was  a  ripple  of  nervous  laughter, 
and  everyone  said  words  that  seemed  to  stick  in  his 
throat.  The  refugees  took  the  things  eagerly,  glad  to 
possess  something  once  more,  eager  for  this  sympathy 
which  rose  all  round  them  in  a  deep  murmur,  eager  to 


POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR  233 

press  the  hands  which  were  stretched  out  to  theirs  after 
everything  had  been  given.  One  saw  a  baker  go  along 
the  train  with  his  biggest  basket  on  his  back  filled  with 
hundreds  of  croissants  which  he  distributed.  Boulenaz, 
the  sympathetic  policeman,  unbuttoned  his  tunic,  and 
drew  from  an  inner  pocket  a  letter,  which  he  gave,  blush- 
ing the  while,  to  an  old  man,  whose  head  nodded  con- 
tinually, like  an  automatic  doll.  And  Potterat  could  be 
both  seen  and  heard,  as  he  ran  along  the  train,  with  a 
dozen  or  so  of  pairs  of  braces,  decorated  with  a  Federal 
cross,  hung  over  his  arm,  calling  out : 

"  Who  wants  new  braces  ?  .  .  .  You  ?  .  .  .  And  you  ? 
.  .  .  Here  you  are  !  .  .  .  Three  more  !  Two  more  !  .  .  . 
That's  the  last !  .  .  .  Who'd  like  a  pipe  ?  .  .  .  Who  wants 
some  tobacco  ?  .  .  .  Here  you  are,  little  girl,  here  are 
some  sweets  for  you.  Give  some  of  them  to  your  little 
brothers  and  sisters  ,  .  ."  and  so  on,  until  at  last,  "  Oh, 
bother  !  I've  nothing  more  !  .  .  .  Oh,  here's  my  pocket- 
knife  .  .  .  and  a  pencil.  .  .  .   There  you  are." 

To  a  man  who  thanked  him  warmly  for  a  pair  of  braces, 
he  said: 

'  You'll  be  rebuilding  your  house  one  of  these  days, 
my  friend,  and  for  stooping  and  lifting  heavy  stones  you 
must  have  strong  braces.  ...  If  you  read,  one  day  or 
other,  in  your  newspapers,  hard  things  about  us,  turn 
over  the  page.  The  real  Swiss  people,  the  backbone 
of  the  nation,  are  here  to-day  on  this  platform,  with 
hearts  full  of  sympathy  and  of  indignation."  For  a 
long  time  he  could  not  say  anything  more,  then  he  burst 
out:  "  Damn  them  !" 

At  all  the  doors  were  children  munching  the  crescents 
with  their  golden  crust,  their  little  mouths  already 
smeared  with  chocolate.  Their  elders  were  unrolling 
their  parcels.  Some  old  men  in  shirt-sleeves  were  trying 
on  waistcoats  and  coats.     Everyone  was  talking. 

'*  Where  do  you  come  from  ?  .  .  ." 


234  POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR 

"  From  the  camp  at — at Ah,  I  can't  remember 

the  name." 

"  Did  they  treat  you  badly  ?" 

■  You  see  how  we  are.  .  .  .  And  we've  buried  such  a 
lot.  .  .  ." 

"  And  where  are  you  going  ?" 

"  Wherever  they  take  us.  I  don't  know.  We  have 
to  go  where  we're  taken  nowadays.  ..." 

One  bent  old  man,  his  chin  covered  with  a  sparse  white 
beard,  leant  out  and  said: 

"  I  used  to  be  in  the  Chasseurs  d'Afrique.  ...  I  had 
a  medal.  .  .  .  They  have  taken  it  from  me.  .  .  .  But  we'll 
take  it  back  from  them.  I  have  eleven  sons  and  sons- 
in-law  with  the  colours.  .  .  .  Eleven  !  .  .  .  I'm  seventy- 
seven  years  old,  but  after  what  I  have  seen,  and  suffered, 
I'd  go  to  the  front  to-morrow,  if  they'd  have  me." 

"  I,"  said  Potterat,  "  am  sixty-five,  but  if  they  come 
to  Switzerland,  I'll  bet  you  that  .  .  ."  an  important 
official  passed  just  then,  ..."  that  .  .  .  You're  going 
to  have  fine  weather,  I  think,  for  your  journey  back  to 
France.  ..." 

A  signal.  .  .  .  The  faces  in  the  windows  were  about  to 
fade  into  the  distance. 

Potterat  stepped  back  a  little  in  order  to  get  an  im- 
pression of  the  whole  scene.  He  wished,  too,  to  send 
something  of  himself  with  these  strangers.  They  passed. 
As  the  train  moved  on,  he  saluted  those  in  it  with 
wide  sweeps  of  the  hat.  As  the  train  glided  past,  he 
saw  again  the  one-eyed  woman,  the  laughing  children, 
the  pale  creature  with  purple  shadows  under  her  eyes 
that  spelt  death,  the  lady  with  a  sweet  distinguished 
face,  very  dignified  in  her  cheap  cloak,  the  old  Chasseur 
d'Afrique,  old  women,  some  with  haggard  faces  and 
cunning  eyes,  others  with  calm  prayerful  brows,  young 
girls  with  the  restrained  smiles  of  those  who  are  ignorant 
of  the  fate  of  brothers,  of  lovers  ...  all  these  human 


POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR  235 

grains,  blown  hither  and  thither  by  the  whirlwind  of 
war;  .  .  .  doleful  attitudes,  eyes  gazing  into  vacancy, 
inexpressible  suffering,  clenched  fists. 

Every  head  in  the  crowd  was  uncovered  as  from  the 
train  hands  and  handkerchiefs  were  waved,  adieux  from 
eyes  and  hearts.  Vive  la  Suisse  !  .  .  .  Just  as  the  last 
carriage  was  gliding  round  the  curve  out  of  sight,  a  man 
leant  out  of  a  carriage-window,  a  huge  giant  with  flying 
hair,  and  yelled  with  all  the  force  of  his  lungs  to  the 
horizon:  "  Vive  la  France  !     Death  to  the  Boches  !" 

"  There's  one,  anyhow,  who  is  not  so  very  neutral," 
said  Potterat. 

"  How  very  tactless  !"  said  a  gentleman  standing  near 
Potterat.  "  What  a  pity !  But  for  him  everything 
would  have  passed  off  with  perfect  dignity." 

"  Tactless,  do  you  call  it  ?"  retorted  Potterat.  "  Per- 
haps it's  a  good  thing  on  the  whole  not  to  be  too  polite. 
If  one  scratches  long  enough,  the  polish  comes  off,  sooner 
or  later.  It  seems  to  me  that  the  poor  fellow  might 
plead  extenuating  circumstances.  They  weren't  very 
tactful  to  him  when  they  turned  him  out  of  his  house 
with  the  butt-ends  of  their  rifles."  The  gentleman  said 
no  more. 

"  You  and  Carlo  go  home  ..."  said  Potterat  to  his 
wife,  "  I  feel  too  upset  altogether  to  come  in  just  yet. 
It'll  quiet  me  down,  I  think,  if  I  take  a  walk  to  Vidy 
and  look  up  Louise.  It's  over  a  fortnight  now  since 
we've  seen  her." 

With  his  arms  crossed  behind  his  back  he  set  out  on 
his  walk.  When  he  reached  the  cemetery  of  Montoie, 
he  felt  a  desire  to  go  in  for  a  minute  or  two ;  it  looked  so 
peaceful  under  the  still  wintry  sun,  its  white  tombstones 
showing  through  the  laurustinus  bushes.  The  fountain 
in  the  middle  was  playing.  In  the  trees  the  birds'-nests 
showed  like  black  stains. 

"  Look  out !"  he  called  to  a  blackbird  who  was  flying 


236  POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR 

swiftly  about.  "  Just  now  cathedrals,  and  hospitals,  and 
cemeteries  are  not  the  safest  places  to  lodge  a  family.  ..." 

The  setting  sun  gilded  the  resinous  trunks  of  the  pine- 
trees,  and  lit  up  the  distant  Savoyard  mountains.  All 
nature  was  so  beautiful  that  it  saddened  one;  it  seemed 
as  if,  whilst  men  were  killing  each  other,  Nature  pursued 
unmoved  her  secret  dream.  .  .  .  Standing  before  the 
tomb  of  his  first  wife,  Potterat  said: 

"  You  are  lucky  !  .  .  .  Life's  not  much  of  a  boon 
just  now  !  .  .  .  However,  we  did  our  duty  this  after- 
noon !  .  .  .  You  would  have  liked  to  have  seen  that ! 
.  .  .    But  it  would  have  made  you  sad.  ..." 

Then  he  came  to  Belisaire's  grave. 

"  Good-day,  Belisaire  !  .  .  .  For  once,  you  keep  to  the 
same  old  place.  .  .  .  Ah,  you  were  wise  to  go  when  you 
did  !  We  don't  know  what  sort  of  a  world  of  robbers 
we're  living  in  now.  .  .  .  It's  no  longer  a  place  for  people 
like  you  and  me.  ...  By  the  way,  I  have  given  away 
your  Sunday  clothes,  the  blue  suit,  to  an  old  man,  the 
sort  of  man  you  would  have  liked,  from  whom  those 
Philistines  had  taken  everything.  .  .  .  You  don't  mind, 
do  you  ?     Hey  ?" 

A  step  crunched  on  the  gravel.  Potterat  looked  round 
and  recognized  Rappaz,  the  gardener,  who  had  lately  lost 
his  only  child,  a  little  girl  of  seven.  They  shook  each 
other  by  the  hand  silently.  Then,  each  looking  different 
ways,  Potterat  said: 

"  You  have  come  to  see.  ..." 

"  Yes.  .  .  ." 

"What  did  she  die  of?" 

"  Oh,  there  were  complications  .  .  .  meningitis.  .  .  . 
It  is  hard  !  .  .  ." 

"  It  is  that  !  .  .  .  On  the  other  hand,  they  are  spared 
much  sorrow  and  suffering.  In  a  way,  it's  almost  better 
to  die  young.  ..." 

"  That's  what  I  said  to  myself  when  I  saw  those 
refugees.  ..." 


POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR  237 

"  And  I,  too,  the  same  thing  !  I  was  just  thinking  a 
while  ago,  before  my  wife's  grave,  what  a  blessed  de- 
liverance, what  rest  and  peace.  ..." 

"  Your  wife's  grave  ?  .  .  ." 

"  Oh,  my  first  wife,  I  should  have  said.  ..." 

"  Ah  yes,  of  course,  of  course.  .  .  .  But  these  things 
seem  to  happen  so  quickly  nowadays,  you  see.  ..." 

Rappaz  went  away,  and  Potterat  remained  for  a  few 
minutes  longer  watching  the  last  rays  of  the  setting  sun 
on  the  tree-tops,  and  listening  to  the  fountain's  gentle 
murmur,  which  the  breeze  sometimes  stopped  for  a 
moment. 

"  Au  revoir  !"  he  said  to  his  dead,  as  usual,  and  went 
on  his  way. 

At  the  farm  the  one-eyed  man  from  Pays-d'Enhaut 
told  him  that  Louise  was  out. 

"  She  said  she  was  going  to  see  the  refugees  pass 
through,  and  she  took  them  a  fine  big  parcel.  ..." 

"  Really  !  .  .  .  And  I've  just  come  from  there.  .  .  . 
But  in  such  a  crowd  as  that  it's  easy  to  miss  people. 
Well,  well,  I'm  very  glad  to  know  that  she  went.  .  .  . 
That's  like  my  daughter  !  Tell  her  I  said  so.  .  .  .  Well, 
and  how  is  everything  going  ?  .  ,.  ." 

"  Oh,  we're  slaving  away  as  usual.  We're  clearing 
every  corner  of  the  land  to  plant  all  the  vegetables  we 
can  in  the  spring.  You  see,  if  Italy  closes  her  frontiers 
against  us.  .  .  ." 

"  You're  quite  right.  It's  just  as  well  to  be  pre- 
pared. ..." 

On  his  way  back,  Potterat  met  once  more  the  Cremets, 
dressed  in  black  as  usual,  taking  their  little  lonely  walk 
between  the  silvery  Lake  and  this  town  of  strangers. 

"Isn't  the  Lake  beautiful  this  evening?"  Potterat 
called  out  to  them. 

"  Oh,  to  appreciate  it  fully  one  ought  to  live  here." 

"  Well,  aren't  you  living  here  ?" 


238  POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR 

"  Well,  not  exactly. .  .  .  However  kindly  we  are  treated, 
still,  you  see,  we  are  here  because  we  can't  help  it.  .  .  . 
Our  hearts  are  elsewhere  all  the  time.  .  .  .  We  look  at  it, 
but  we  scarcely  see  it,  you  understand.  ..." 

Guessing  vaguely  how  these  poor  exiles  felt,  and  turning 
at  the  same  time  to  stare  after  a  little  woman  dressed 
in  the  extreme  of  fashion,  gaiters,  a  low-necked  blouse, 
a  marvellous  coiffure,  and  a  jaunty  little  hat  perched 
sideways  on  top  of  her  painted  face,  Potterat  agreed : 

"  Oh,  there's  no  doubt  that  after  what  you  have  seen, 
and  what  you  have  suffered,  to  meet  these  silly  half- 
dressed  little  monkeys,  like  that  girl  who  passed  us  just 
now,  nearly  knocking  you  down  with  her  scent,  isn't 
exactly  in  tune  with  your  feelings.  .  .  .  And  then,  too, 
all  these  hotel  people  that  we  have  here,  these  tennis- 
players  and  all  those  individuals  who  don't  know  how  to 
get  through  the  time  at  twenty-five  francs  a  day,  they 
don't  seem  to  fit  in  with  the  war,  do  they  ?  .  .  .  The  fact  is 
that  half  these  women  who  frequent  the  hotels  lace  them- 
selves up  so  tightly  that  there's  no  room  for  any  heart. 
.  .  .  They  ought  to  go  into  mourning,  and  put  off  some 
of  their  airs  and  graces  for  a  time.  .  .  .  What  use  are 
they  anyhow  ?  .  .  .  All  the  men  in  Europe  are  being 
killed,  and  in  the  future  there  will  be  neither  weddings 
nor  cradles.  ...  So  what's  the  good  of  painting  their 
faces  ?  .  .  .  But,  to  change  the  subject,  why  don't  you 
ever  go  to  see  any  of  these  convoys  of  deported  people  at 
the  station  passing  through  ?" 

Cremet  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

:<  We  don't  need  to  go  and  see  what  we  have  lived 
through  ourselves." 

"  That's  true.  .  .  .  Oh,  but  it  is  disgraceful !  Robbing 
poor  people  of  everything  they  possess,  of  all  the  comfort 
of  life,  their  food,  their  wine,  their  fruit,  fire,  photographs, 
the  butter  on  their  bread,  everything  that  they  can  see 
from  their  windows,  all  their  little  savings.  .  .  .    We're 


POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR  239 

going  back  to  the  time  of  Nebuchadnezzar,  if  I'm  not 
mistaken.  .  .  .  Look  here  !  This  is  a  piece  I  cut  out  of 
the  Feuille  d'Avis  yesterday  evening,  in  an  article  on 
The  Ninth  Commandment.  It's  taken  from  a  book  by 
a  Lieutenant  Joachim,  called  The  Ten  Commandments  of 
the  Sword,  and  it's  authentic.     Just  listen  to  this: 

'  There  is  no  room  for  pity  in  the  heart  of  a  soldier.' 
1  The  soldier  who  gives  up  his  cloak  to  a  woman 
who  is  cold  sins  against  his  country.  Better  that  a 
hundred  enemy  women  and  children  should  die  of 
cold  and  hunger  than  that  a  single  soldier  should 
suffer.' 

'  You,  soldiers,  you  must  pass  over  the  earth  like 
a  storm-wind.  Others  may  speak  of  pity,  but  you 
must  strike  down  and  annihilate  your  enemies.  You 
are  the  tragedians  under  the  starry  sky,  and  God 
Himself  is  the  audience.  .  .  .' 

"...  They  have  the  cheek  to  think,  you  see,  that  the 
Supreme  Being  looks  down  with  approval  on  their 
brutalities.  .  .  .  What  I  can't  understand  is  why  God 
doesn't,  with  one  big  kick  starting  from  eternity,  kick  us 
all  like  a  football  straight  into  hell !  .  .  .  This  Joachim, 
now,  I  should  just  like  to  have  him  all  to  myself  for  a  little 
while  behind  a  hedge  !  .  .  .  I  should  first  read  a  bit  of  his 
own  book  to  him.  Then  I  should  roll  up  my  sleeves, 
spit  on  my  hands,  and  then,  wouldn't  I  just  go  for 
him  !  .  .  .  I  bet  you  he  wouldn't  be  able  to  sit  down 
comfortably  for  a  year  or  two  after  I  had  done  with 
him  !  .  .  .   Oh,  it's  a  rotten  world,  I  tell  you  !  .  .  ." 

Cremet  did  not  say  anything:  his  wife  merely  shook 
her  head.  They  knew  only  one  thing,  that  they  had 
been  turned  out  of  their  home  and  country. 

The  same  evening,  when  the  two  women  had  gone  to 
see  a  neighbour,  Potterat  took  up  the  conversation  again. 
Somewhat  overwrought,  and  in  consequence  a  little  frac- 


240  POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR 

tious,  Potterat  for  once  became  aggressive,  neutral, 
sarcastic.  Cremet  was  reading  the  paper  which  lay  on 
the  table.  He  was  indignant  because  it  did  not  con- 
demn more  decidedly  the  enemies  of  Belgium,  did  not 
range  itself  more  openly  and  fearlessly  on  her  side,  but 
contented  itself  with  more  or  less  ambiguous  remarks 
and  vague  generalizations. 

"  You  see,  you  can't  very  well  understand  our  position. 
...  If  we  seem  to  be  trying  to  please  all  parties,  we  have 
very  good  reasons.  Has  it  ever  occurred  to  you  that 
we  are  in  the  very  heart  of  the  fire  ?  .  .  .  That  we 
ought  to  think  twice  before  plunging  our  country,  too, 
into  the  general  conflagration  ?  .  .  .  That  we  have,  here 
in  Switzerland,  three  languages  and  two  religions,  that 
the  Government  has  to  balance  all  these  conflicting  in- 
terests; to  soothe  this  one,  to  shut  up  that  one's  mouth, 
and,  above  all,  to  be  careful  not  to  offend  the  big  ogre  ! 
.  .  .  This  neutrality  is  imposed  upon  us  by  our  geographi- 
cal situation.  .  .  .  Monsieur  Dufournet,  the  Member  of 
Parliament,  calls  it  a  neutrality  of  existence.  .  .  .  You 
understand,  don't  you  ?  .  .  .  This  being  the  case,  you 
mustn't  criticize  us,  our  politics,  our  newspapers,  nor 
our  coffee.  Everyone  has  his  own  ways  and  customs, 
and  everyone  likes  his  own  best,  and  knows  best 
what  suits  himself.  .  .  .  Our  rivers  and  streams  flow 
in  every  direction.  .  .  .  It  isn't  very  surprising  that 
our  individual  convictions  should  do  the  same.  .  .  .  Then 
again,  there  is  the  question  of  getting  in  supplies,  which 
is  the  same  for  all  of  us,  no  matter  what  language  we 
speak,  or  what  our  religion  may  be.  .  .  .  There  you  have 
the  real  national  question.  ..." 

Cremet,  somewhat  overwrought  too,  by  the  long  weary 
days  of  aimless  waiting,  and  vaguely  jealous  of  the  security 
of  this  peaceful  home,  retorted: 

"  Belgium  has  paid  the  price  of  your  safety.  It's  to 
us  you  owe  your  life.  ..." 


POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR  241 

"  What  ?  .  .  .  Nonsense  !  If  you  had  had  universal 
compulsory  military  service  like  us,  we  should  both  of 
us  have  been  safe  and  sound  in  this  business.  .  .  .  Besides, 
I'll  just  ask  you  one  question.  Suppose  it  had  been 
Switzerland  that  had  been  invaded,  our  towns  burnt,  our 
churches  shelled,  would  you  Belgians  have  come  to  our 
help  ?  Hey  ?  .  .  .  Would  you  ?  .  .  ." 
The  Belgian  was  silent. 

"  There,  you  see  !  .  .  .  You  can't  say  '  Yes  '  !  .  .  .  It's 
everyone  for  himself  !  Our  Government  knows  what  it 
is  doing,  and  why  it's  doing  it.  That  may  not  sound 
grand,  but  it's  only  common  sense.  ...  If  one's  reason 
and  one's  heart  don't  agree,  what's  to  be  done  ?  To  live 
together  in  peace,  there  are  times  when  everyone  has  to 
give  way  a  bit.  .  .  .  Anyhow,  I  didn't  make  the  world, 
thank  goodness.  ..." 

Cremet's  only  reply  was  a  somewhat  reproachful 
glance.     Potterat  jumped  up. 

'■  I  don't  know  why  I'm  talking  like  this,  Cremet !  .  .  . 
I  expect  it's  a  sort  of  reaction.  .  .  .  The  fact  is,  old  man, 
I  was  terribly  upset  this  afternoon.  ...  I'm  too  soft- 
hearted altogether.  ...  It  haunts  me  all  the  time,  that 
scene  at  the  station  !  .  .  .  I  feel  almost  as  if  I  were  to 
blame  for  it  somehow.  .  .  .  And  it  makes  one  feel  a  bit 
touchy,  when  one  has  expected  great  things  from  one's 
country,  and  has  been  disappointed:  disappointed  not 
in  its  kind-heartedness,  but  in  its  pride,  in  its  unity  of 
feeling,  in  .  .  .  in  .  .  .  What  was  I  going  to  say  ?  .  .  . 
Well,  what  I  mean  is,  that  when  one  has  been  disap- 
pointed in  a  certain  way,  and  one  is  a  keen  patriot,  one 
suffers  so  much  in  hearing  the  country  criticized  by 
strangers,  that  one  gives  an  opening  for  criticism  oneself. 
.  .  .  Look  here,  old  man,  don't  let  us  talk  any  more 
about  it !  .  .  .  We  know  each  other,  and  respect  each 
other.  We,  as  well  as  you,  are  the  victims  of  circum- 
stances.    It's  a  pity,  but  there  it  is.  .  .  .    Shake  hands, 

16 


242  POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR 

Cremet.  .  .  .  You  are  in  exile,  and  you're  my  guest.  .  .  . 
I  take  back  everything  I  said." 

Cremet  took  his  pipe  out  of  his  mouth,  and  held  out 
his  hand.     And  once  more  he  said : 

"  Monsieur  Potterat,  you  are  a  good  man.  ..." 

That  night,  while  he  was  undressing,  Potterat  was 
seized  with  an  attack  of  sincerity,  which  his  wife  did 
not  altogether  understand. 

"  It's  a  nice  state  of  things  !"  he  said.  "  After  having 
spent  the  greater  part  of  my  life  in  upholding  law  and 
order,  to  be  obliged  now,  in  obedience  to  these  orders 
from  Berne,  to  bottle  up  what  one  thinks,  what  one 
knows,  to  tell  only  half  the  truth,  to  juggle  with  one's 
conscience.  .  .  .  Sometimes  I  feel  like  shouting  out  all  I 
know  .  .  .  but  I  dare  not !  .  .  .  nobody  dares  !  .  .  .  We  all 
compromise.  ...  If  you  express  yourself  too  plainly,  the 
censor  steps  in  with  his  big  scissors.  .  .  .  We  live  in  a 
continual  state  of  uneasiness.  ...  It  would  be  far  better, 
it  seems  to  me,  instead  of  keeping  up  this  silence  and 
these  evasions,  to  discuss  the  whole  thing  freely  with 
our  Confederates.  .  .  .  Much  better  to  open  an  abscess 
than  to  keep  it  closed  and  poison  the  blood !  .  .  .  Here 
we  are,  some  millions  of  Swiss  people,  most  of  us  splendid 
patriots,  leading  a  perfectly  wretched  existence,  since. 
.  .  .  We  all  feel,  every  one  of  us,  since  our  silence  last 
August,  that  we've  not  done  the  right  thing.  .  .  .  Ah, 
how  I  envy  Joffre  !  .  .  .  There's  a  man  who  can  say  white 
is  white,  and  black  is  black  !  .  .  .  It's  a  great  mistake  for 
a  little  country  to  lose  its  courage.  ..." 

"  Then  do  you  want  us  to  join  in  this  war  ?  .  .  ."  asked 
his  wife,  terrified.  "  Do  you  want  to  see  thousands  of 
our  young  men  crippled  for  life  ?  .  .  ." 

"  Who's  talking  about  war  ?  .  .  .  WTar  is  horrible 
beyond  words.  But  if,  last  August,  in  accordance  with 
our  traditions,  and  our  neutrality,  guaranteed  by  all  the 
Great  Powers,  by  Heaven  !  if  only  we  had  said  firmly,  but 


POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR  243 

quietly  and  diplomatically,  to  anyone  whom  it  might  con- 
cern :  '  You  have  invaded  Belgium  !  You  have  invaded 
Luxemburg  !  Allow  me  to  tell  you,  gentlemen,  that 
Switzerland  considers  your  conduct  shameful !'  .  .  .  Just 
that  !  .  .  .  Nothing  more  !  .  .  .  What  would  have  been 
the  result  ?  Well,  we  should  have  an  easy  conscience 
now,  and  the  knowledge  that  our  hearts  were  in  the  right 
place.  .  .  .  And  we  should  have  been  cheerful,  knowing 
that  we  had  been  brave.  We  should  have  done  our 
military  service  with  pleasure.  We  should  have  shown 
to  the  world  that  we  think  of  something  higher  than 
merely  getting  in  supplies.  We  should  have  presented  a 
united  front  to  the  world.  .  .  .  But  fust  look  at  the  way 
things  are  now  !  .  .  .  As  for  war,  there  would  have  been 
no  more  likelihood  of  war  than  there  is  now.  .  .  .  less  if 
anything.  .  .  .  We  provoke  no  one  ...  we  take  no  sides 
...  we  merely  state  our  opinion.  .  .  .  And  hang  it  all, 
they  did  invade  Belgium,  didn't  they  ?  .  .  ." 

"  Look  here,  David,  you  take  these  things  too  much 
to  heart.  All  we  can  do  is  to  say  nothing,  but  to  help 
those  poor  refugees  all  we  can." 

"  That  doesn't  alter  my  opinion.  We  could,  and  we 
ought  to,  do  both." 

"  It's  none  of  our  business." 

"  That's  a  nice  sort  of  thing  to  say  !  .  .  .  '  It's  none  of 
our  business  !'  .  .  .  All  the  little  nations  are  in  the  same 
boat.  If  justice  and  honour  and  respect  for  treaties 
which  enable  us  to  exist,  are  none 'of  our  business,  I 
should  like  to  know  what  is  our  business  ?  .  .  .  Oh,  let 
me  go  to  sleep  !  At  least  one  forgets  everything  for  a 
time.     One  goes  back  into  nothing.  .  .  ." 

"  David  !  Don't  talk  like  that !  .  .  .  '  Into  nothing  !' 
What  would  the  pastor  say  if  he  heard  you  ?  .  .  ." 

"  Well,  he's  not  here,"  said  Potterat,  casting  an  in- 
voluntary glance  round  him.  "  I  don't  know  what's  the 
matter  with  me  to-day.     I  said  all  sorts  of  silly  things 


244  POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR 

to  Cremet  too.  ...  I  had  begun  to  say  something  kind 
and  sympathetic  to  one  of  those  refugees  to-day,  and 
when  I  saw  the  magistrate  close  to  me,  I  finished  it  up 
quite  differently.  ...  I'm  a  nice  fearless  kind  of  man, 
eh  ?  .  .  .  I'm  only  a  tame  cat  about  the  house,  that's 
what  I  am  !  .  .  .  coming  in  for  my  meals,  and  quite  con- 
tent with  that.  .  .  .  What  is  the  matter  with  us  all  ?  .  .  . 
WTiat  we  need  is  a  little  more  of  the  blood  of  our  ancestors 
in  our  veins,  a  little  more  love  of  liberty  for  ourselves 
and  for  others.  .  .  .  Really,  I  begin  to  think  that  it  would 
be  far  easier  to  stand  the  fleas  and  the  privations  of  a 
concentration  camp  than  to  be  as  we  are.  ..." 

He  got  into  bed.  The  rain  dashed  against  the  window- 
panes,  a  cold  February  rain,  half  sleet.  It  was  very 
pleasant  to  find  a  hot-water  bottle  at  his  feet.  The 
thick  curtains  were  closely  drawn.  Potterat  enjoyed 
the  exquisite  warmth. 

"  It  wouldn't  take  much  to  make  me  purr  like  a  cat," 
he  said.  "  My  word !  WTiat  it  must  be  like  at  the 
bottom  of  those  trenches !  .  .  .  Dragging  one's  feet 
through  thick  mud,  walking  on  frogs,  slipping  in  blood, 
feeling  the  fog  creeping  down  your  back,  and  chilling  you 
through  and  through,  no  more  able  to  change  your  shirt 
than  an  onion,  to  have  to  sleep  with  one  eye  open,  and 
to  keep  a  lookout  for  a  possible  attack  of  the  enemy 
through  the  bushes  with  his  bayonet  between  his  teeth. 
. .  .  Nice,  comfortable,  luxurious  sort  of  existence,  isn't  it  ? 
...  I  declare  I  am  ashamed  of  this  hot-water  bottle  ! 
.  .  .    All  the  same,  I  suppose  I'd  better  keep  it.  ..." 

Madame  Potterat  was  already  asleep.  The  breath 
came  evenly  from  her  parted  lips.  Her  husband  felt 
jealous  of  this  easy  sleep,  and  he  sighed. 

"These  women! . . .  After  all,  they're  very  limited! ..." 


CHAPTER  XI 

A  thin  toothless  old  Savoyard  woman  used  to  come 
over  regularly  to  the  Potterats'  to  sell  eggs,  fish,  and 
vegetables.  She  was  very  loquacious,  and  so  amusing 
that  they  often  asked  her  to  come  in  and  have  a  cup  of 
coffee  in  the  kitchen.  Potterat  loved  to  tease  her,  and 
she,  with  her  sharp  little  quick-witted  face  under  her 
gauffered  cap,  was  quite  a  match  for  him. 

Since  the  war,  she  had  changed  altogether.  And  this 
morning,  drawing  a  letter  from  her  pocket,  she  said : 

"  They  tell  me  that  you  have  an  office  for  inquiries 
here  at  Lausanne.  Would  you  kindly  do  me  a  service, 
Monsieur  Potterat  ?  .  .  .  I  have  a  letter  here  which  I 
have  written.  ...  If  you  would  please  read  it,  and  get 
it  sent  to  the  right  people  for  me  ?  .  .  .  I  shall  go  mad 
if  I  can't  get  some  news.  .  .  ." 

The  letter  was  as  follows: 

■  To  all  whom  it  may  concern. 

'  Since  the  13th  August,  1914,  I  have  had  no 
news  of  my  son,  Jean  Marie  Anthouard,  private  in  the 
4th  Engineers,  13th  Company,  recently  in  action  at 
Grenoble.  We  know  that  he  was  wounded,  picked  up 
by  his  comrades,  and  that  then  he  had  to  be  abandoned, 
because  of  heavy  artillery  fire. 

'  Since  the  3rd  September,  1914,  I  have  had  no  news, 
either,  of  Claude  Anthouard,  my  second  son,  private  in 
the  3rd  Infantry,  1st  Company,  1st  Battalion,  who  joined 
at  Annecy. 

'  Any  information  concerning  the  above  will  be  thank- 
fully received  by  their  mother,  the  Widow  Anthouard, 
Neuvecelle,  Haute-Savoie.' 

245 


246  POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR 

Potterat  seemed  slow  in  reading  it. 

"  I  will  do  my  best,"  said  he,  at  length,  in  the  severely 
official  voice  which  he  put  on  when  he  wished  to  hide 
his  emotion.  "  I  will  forward  your  letter  to  Geneva 
with  a  line  or  two  from  myself.  You  may  depend  on 
me.  .  .  ." 

"  Do  you  think  it  is  true,  Monsieur,  what  they  are 
saying  over  in  our  place,  that  they  finish  them  on  the 
spot  where  they  fall,  kill  them  like  dogs,  with  blows  from 
the  butt-ends  of  their  guns  ?  .  .  .  The  wounded,  too,  who 
might  have  been  able  to  recover  !  .  .  .  There  are  some 
who  have  heard  them  screaming,  they  say.  .  .  .  Oh,  I 
feel  as  if  I  should  go  mad  !  .  .  ." 

'  This  awful  war  !"  said  Potterat,  unable  to  say  any 
more.     "  It  makes  me  sick  !" 

Madame  Potterat  offered  her  some  refreshment. 

"  No,  thank  you,  nothing,  Madame,"  she  said.  "  No 
coffee  to-day,  thank  you.  .  .  .  Oh,  if  you  only  knew  how 
awful  it  is  to  have  no  news.  .  .  .  You  have  your  good 
man  here,  your  son,  everyone  belonging  to  you.  .  .  .  No, 
you  in  Switzerland  can't  imagine  what  it  is.  .  .  ." 

Madame  Cremet  joined  the  group  when  she  heard  this. 

"  Ah,  I  know  what  it  is  !  .  .  .  No,  they  don't  realize 
it  here.  ...  I  am  a  Belgian.  .  .  .  And  I  don't  know 
anything  about  my  children,  either.  .  .  .  Four  children, 
eighteen  grandchildren  !  .  .  .  There  are  some  of  our 
villages  where  every  single  person  was  killed.  ..." 

Mingling  their  sorrows  and  anxieties,  the  two  old 
women  wept  together.  And  seeing  the  great  tears  roll 
down  their  cheeks  Madame  Potterat  began  to  cry  also. 
Potterat  turned  his  head  away,  wiping  his  eyes.  Be- 
tween two  sobs  one  said : 

"  Truly  the  devil  is  passing  through  the  land." 

"  He's  not  passing,  he's  staying." 

"  Oh  !  When  I  see  the  postman  going  round  our  road, 
and  never  a  letter  for  me,"  said  the  little  Savoyard,  "  I 


POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR  247 

go  and  hide  myself  in  the  cellar  .  .  .  and  then  I  hear  the 
neighbours  shouting:  'A  letter  from  Victor!'  ...  'A 
letter  from  my  Casimir  !'  .  .  .  I  stop  my  ears.  .  .  .  And 
my  third  and  last  son  goes  next  week.  He  says  all  the 
time :  '  It's  a  good  thing,  too  !  You  make  me  miserable 
with  your  crying  !'  .  .  .  But  to  have  lost  two,  and  very 
soon  perhaps  the  third  also,  is  too  much  !" 

'  They'll  be  found  for  you,  Madame,  never  fear,"  said 
Potterat.  "  We  will  begin  making  inquiries  at  once. 
I'll  see  to  it,  and  I'll  add  a  few  words  to  your  letter,  as 
I  said.  .  .  .  Oh,  we'll  find  them,  I  promise  you.  .  .  .  And 
then  .  .  .  (he  did  not  quite  know  how  to  express  his  fear) 
.  .  .  they  were  brave  fellows,  your  boys  !  ...  if ,  by  chance, 
they  should  be  no  longer  on  earth,  it  is  at  the  top  of 
the  ladder  you'll  find  them." 

These  words  consoled  the  poor  old  woman  somewhat. 
She  had  a  momentary  vision  of  her  boys  at  the  top  of 
a  ladder  of  gold,  in  a  beautiful  blue  heaven,  where  the 
Virgin  Mary,  clothed  in  white,  sat  enthroned.  Shaking 
hands  with  them  warmly,  she  went  off,  bending  under  the 
weight  of  the  basket  on  her  back,  while  the  Potterats 
stood  gazing  after  her,  and  Madame  Cremet  sat  with  her 
hands  on  her  knees,  gazing  into  the  past. 

When  Potterat  had  finished  addressing  the  letter,  he 
said  to  his  wife : 

"  It's  quite  true,  what  she  said  about  us  Swiss,  that 
we  don't  realize  ...  we  shall  never  be  able  to  realize 
what  war  is.  .  .  .  We  live  too  quietly.  .  .  .  And  heaps  of 
people  here  are  amusing  themselves  just  as  usual.  .  .  . 
Just  look  at  those  '  winter  sports '  places,  where  they 
have  to  refuse  people,  they  are  so  full !  The  fact  is,  we 
don't  do  half  enough  for  all  these  poor  creatures.  .  .  . 
On  my  way  back  from  town,  I'll  buy  some  flowers  for  the 
Cremets  .  .  .  we'll  put  them  at  their  places  at  supper.  ..." 

Presently  came  the  news  that  the  Russians  were  in 
retreat.     Potterat  had  a  terrible  fit  of  depression. 


248  POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR 

"  That's  very  bad  news  !  .  .  .  They're  on  the  run, 
evidently  !  .  .  .  We'll  have  to  look  out !  .  .  .  I  think  I'll 
emigrate  to  Canada  !  ..." 

One  day,  Madame  Sauer  came  in,  much  excited. 

"  Monsieur  Potterat,  I  believe  there's  a  spy  on  the 
fifth  floor  !" 

Zimmerli  ?  .  .  .     Impossible  !" 

"  No,  the  flat  opposite.  .  .  .  It's  a  woman.  .  .  .  She 
shows  a  light  every  quarter  of  an  hour  all  through  the 
night.  .  .  .  And  a  Savoy  woman  told  me  that  there  is 
known  to  be  a  nest  of  spies  at  Evian  who  do  the  same 
sort  of  tricks.  .  .  .  They  are  all  working  together,  and  they 
signal  to  each  other  across  the  Lake.  ..." 

"  What's  her  name  ?" 

"  Barbara  Tannenbaum." 

"  Barbara  Tannenbaum  !  .  .  .  The  very  name  gives  her 
away  !  .  .  .  All  right !  Leave  it  to  me.  I'll  soon  find 
out  all  about  it  quietly  and  discreetly.  ..." 

With  a  job  of  this  kind  on  hand  Potterat  was  himself 
again.  Soon  after  this,  as  he  was  talking  over  the  affair 
with  a  few  of  his  friends  at  the  Cafe  d'Etraz,  Schmid  the 
landlord  leaned  over  to  whisper  confidentially  in  his  ear : 

"  Spies  ?  .  .  .  They  are  everywhere  now  !  .  .  .  Listening, 
making  notes,  collecting  all  sorts  of  information.  .  .  . 
And  every  now  anc\  then  some  of  it  comes  in  useful.  .  .  . 
You  know  that  case  at  Geneva  ?  Well,  in  that  it  came 
out  that  they  had  made  lists  of  motor-cars,  of  horses, 
and  of  the  facilities  for  putting  them  up.  .  .  .  They  had 
more  information  at  their  fingers' -ends  than  our  own 
General  Staff.  .  .  .  Well,  now,  I'm  certain  that  one  of 
them  comes  in  here  ...  a  big  fair  fellow.  ...  He  sits 
there  in  that  corner  all  alone,  and  stays  for  the  best 
part  of  an  hour,  drinking  half  a  pint  of  wine.  He  pre- 
tends not  to  be  noticing  anything,  but  in  reality  he  takes 
in  every  word  that  is  said.  .  .  .  Hell  be  coming  along 
presently  .  .  .  it's  just  about  his  time.  ..." 


POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR  249 

"  Would  you  like  me  to  settle  him  for  you  ?  .  .  .  I 
know  the  way  to  make  these  gentry  take  to  their  heels. 
.  .  .  After  thirty  years  in  the  Police,  it  would  be  odd  if 
I  didn't.  .  .  ." 

Presently  the  man,  a  sturdy-looking  fellow,  with  an 
upturned  moustache,  came  in  and  took  his  usual  seat. 
Potterat  in  a  leisurely  way  strolled  over  and  took  a  seat  at 
the  same  table.  Very  quietly  he  took  from  an  inner 
pocket  some  papers,  a  notebook,  and  a  pencil,  and  pro- 
ceeded to  make  some  notes,  looking  very  serious,  and 
from  time  to  time  casting  sharp,  searching  glances  across 
the  table  at  his  vis-a-vis,  after  each  of  which  his  pencil 
went  faster  than  ever.     Presently  he  said  brusquely: 

"  Excuse  me,  Monsieur,  are  you  travelling  ?" 

A  grunt  which  might  have  meant  anything  was  the 
only  reply. 

"It's  a  jolly  fine  day  to-day.  A  real  spring  day. 
Isn't  it  ?" 

A  nod  of  the  head  answered  him. 

1  You  are  a  commercial  traveller,  aren't  you  ?  .  .  .  Oh, 
no  offence,  I  hope,  ...  I  don't  mean  to  be  inquisitive,  it 
was  just  for  something  to  say.  I'm  in  the  Police,  myself. 
I've  got  here  a  certain  number  of  descriptions  of  people 
I've  got  to  look  out  for,  so  I  have  to  study  them  every 
now  and  then,  and  keep  my  eyes  open  as  I  go  about. 
I  make  some  notes,  too,  now  and  then.  ..." 

Precipitately,  the  man  rose,  paid  his  score,  and  departed. 
A  roar  of  laughter  rose  from  the  habitues  of  the  house. 

"  Did  you  see  how  I  sent  him  off  ?"  swaggered  Potterat. 
"  He  took  me  for  a  detective.  .  .  .  Oh,  I  know  how  to 
track  these  fellows.  ...  I'm  watching  one  now  at 
Chailly,  and  the  day  before  yesterday  I  was  on  the  Palud, 
talking  to  a  friend,  when  my  bird  passed.  So  I  said  to 
my  friend,  rather  loud,  you  know,  '  Never  seen  a  spy, 
haven't  you  ?  .  .  .  WTell,  there's  one,  and  a  clever  one, 
too  !  .  .  . '      There   was   a   crowd   of  people   about   us, 


250  POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR 

but  he  was  the  only  one  who  turned  round.  I  said  to 
my  friend,  '  When  you  call  out  "  Medor  !"  to  a  pack  of 
hounds,  it's  only  the  one  who  is  called  "  Medor  !"  who 
comes  at  your  call.'  See  ?  .  .  .  Now  I  am  going  to  get 
to  the  bottom  of  this  affair  of  signalling  to  Evian.  I'll 
let  you  know  what  comes  of  it." 

Zimmerli  always  came  back  from  his  office  about  seven 
o'clock,  and  after  the  time  required  to  eat  a  cold  supper, 
and  change  his  black  office  suit  for  an  old  grey  one  which 
he  wore  at  home,  he  sat  down  before  his  music-stand, 
and  began  to  tune  his  zither.  Everyone  in  the  house 
was  familar  with  this  hour  of  romantic  effusion.  When 
their  supper  dishes  were  washed  and  put  away,  Madame 
Mottaz,  Madame  Sauer,  and  Mdlle.  Peytrequin,  used 
to  sit  out  on  their  balconies,  and  live  over  again  the 
romance  of  their  lives,  reawakened  by  these  old  songs 
without  words. 

Zimmerli  was  not  surprised  to  see  Potterat  appear  in 
his  garret.  He  thoroughly  enjoyed  a  visit  from  Potterat, 
who  was  a  kindred  spirit  in  the  matter  of  music.  But 
this  evening  in  particular,  Potterat  seemed  rather  pre- 
occupied. He  wandered  to  the  window,  drummed  with 
his  fingers  on  the  glass,  drew  aside  the  curtain,  and  at 
last  he  said : 

"  You  have  a  splendid  view  of  Evian  from  your  flat. 
This  window  is  as  good  as  an  observatory.  .  .  .  You  have 
the  moon  and  the  wind  all  to  yourself  up  here."  ' 

"  Oh  yes,  it's  a  beautiful  view.  And  just  before  rain, 
you  can  see  every  house  across  the  Lake  quite  distinctly." 

"  Just  so.  .  .  .  They  can  be  seen  only  too  well !  ...  By 
the  way,  Zimmerli,  isn't  the  flat  opposite  yours  occupied 
now?  .  .  .  Rather  a  good-looking  woman,  isn't  she  ?  .  .  ." 

"  I've  scarcely  seen  her.  She  goes  out  after  I've  gone 
in  the  morning,  and  she  gets  back  before  me.  ..." 

Potterat  folded  his  arms,  and,  fixing  a  stern  eye  on 
Zimmerli,  said : 


POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR  251 

"  She's  suspected  of  being  a  spy." 

"  What  ?  .  .  .     This  woman  ?  .  .  ." 

"  Yes.  We're  not  altogether  sure  yet.  .  .  .  I've  been 
asked  to  find  out  about  her.  .  .  .  Rather  a  difficult  and 
delicate  task,  isn't  it  ?  .  .  .  Now,  your  garret  overlooks 
hers,  and  you  must  watch  her." 

"  Certainly  not !  I  shouldn't  do  such  a  thing  for  the 
world  !"  and  Zimmerli  rose,  his  celibate  modesty  deeply 
outraged. 

'  What's  that  ?  .  .  .  But  I  don't  think  you  realize 
what  kind  of  person  she  is.  .  .  .  This  is  an  affair  of  es- 
pionage. A  light  is  shown  here,  and  another  replies.  .  .  . 
It  seems  harmless  enough,  but  they  have  a  whole  code 
of  signals  by  lights.  .  .  .  They  are  carried  on  further, 
transmitted  from  one  to  the  other.  It  may  very  well  be 
done  to  order  an  attack.  .  .  .  Zimmerli,  the  lives  of  ten 
thousand  men  may  depend  on  what  is  signalled  across 
the  Lake  from  the  window  of  your  next-door  neighbour  !" 

Zimmerli  was  startled  and  impressed  by  these  figures. 
And  that  a  thing  like  this  should  have  been  going  on  so 
close  to  him  seemed  to  make  him  a  sort  of  accomplice. 

"  But  what  ought  I  to  do  ?" 

"  Just  watch,  nothing  else.  In  the  evening,  put  out 
your  own  lights,  leave  your  zither  alone  for  a  couple  of 
days  or  so,  and  watch  this  young  woman.  .  .  .  Listen  to 
her  moving  about.  .  .  .  Notice  whether  she  goes  to  bed, 
and  if  so,  when  ?  .  .  .  Whether  anyone  comes  to  see  her, 
and  if  so,  whether  man  or  woman  ?  .  .  .  Whether  she 
turns  on  her  electric  light  after  she  has  put  it  out,  and 
if  at  regular  or  irregular  intervals  ?  .  .  .  and  anything 
else  that  you  think  may  help  the  authorities." 

Quite  concerned,  Zimmerli  set  himself  to  watch, 
kneeling  behind  his  window.  Next  day  he  reported  that 
she  moved  about  continually,  that  she  turned  her  electric 
light  on  and  off  at  least  three  times  an  hour.  Potterat 
whistled  through  his  teeth,  and  walked  twice  round  the 


252  POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR 

garret.  Then,  stopping  suddenly  in  front  of  Zimmerli, 
he  gazed  into  the  transparent  eyes  lifted  to  his. 

"  Zimmerli,  this  is  undoubtedly  spying  of  the  worst 
kind.  And  it  is  going  on  so  close  to  your  rooms  that 
you  are  very  likely  to  be  mixed  up  in  any  inquiry  about 
it.     That's  the  annoying  part  of  the  business." 

Zimmerli  sat  down.  Behind  his  glasses  shone  a  quiet 
conscience,  a  little  short-sighted,  but  quite  serene.  He 
murmured : 

"  I  ought  to  have  known  better  than  to  have  mixed 
myself  up  in  the  thing  at  all.  .  .  .  This  evening  I  shall 
take  to  my  zither  again.  ..." 

'?  This  evening,"  said  Potterat,  with  stern  authority, 
"  you  will  resume  your  watching.  It  is  really  necessary. 
You  can't  establish  a  formal  charge  on  the  result  of  one 
night's  watching  only.  .  .  .  You  must  do  it  in  your  own 
interests;  if  you  don't,  it  will  seem  as  if  you  were  aiding 
and  abetting.  .  .  .  Besides,  this  woman  may  even  be  a 
man  in  disguise,  a  chemist,  perhaps,  engaged  in  making 
explosives.  .  .  .  Perhaps  he  has,  hidden  away  at  the 
bottom  of  a  trunk,  some  incendiary  bombs,  asphyxiating 
gases,  tubes  of  melinite.  ...  An  accident,  and  you  are 
blown  up,  you  and  your  bed,  to  goodness  knows  what 
height  ...  we  should  find  only  your  zither,  hooked  on  to 
a  cloud.  ..." 

Terrified,  Zimmerli  took  up  his  place  at  nightfall  as 
before,  behind  his  curtain. 

On  his  part,  Potterat  had  requested  Sergeant  Delessert 
to  get  him  some  information  about  this  Barbara  Tannen- 
baum.  This  information  was  excellent,  as  far  as  it  went, 
papers  all  in  order,  a  spotless  reputation,  rent  paid 
regularly.  She  was  a  governess  in  a  foreign  family,  and 
since  the  war,  her  occupation  being  gone,  she  had  lived 
very  quietly,  in  order  not  to  exhaust  her  savings  too 
quickly.  .  .  . 

"  Absolutely  nothing  against  her  ?  .  .  ." 


POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR  253 

"  Nothing." 

'  That's  a  pity.  However,  since  nobody  is  absolutely 
infallible,  with  the  best  intentions  in  the  world,  my  next 
move  will  be  a  little  friendly  call.  ...  I'll  soon  find  out 
whether  she's  all  right,  or  not.  There's  still  something 
queer  about  this  light-flashing  business." 

So  Potterat  knocked  discreetly  next  day  at  the  door 
on  which  was  pinned  a  visiting-card  with  the  name 
'  Barbara  Tannenbaum.'  Light  steps  were  heard.  Then 
the  door  was  half  opened,  showing  a  terribly  swollen  face, 
bound  up,  with  drawn  features,  and  eyes  reduced  to  blue 
slits. 

"  Oh,  you  are  suffering  from  toothache,  Madame  ?" 
asked  Potterat,  his  ready  sympathy  springing  to  the 
surface  at  the  sight  of  suffering. 

U.  Oh  yes,  Monsieur.  .  .  .  But  it's  beginning  to  go  now. 
.  .  .  Quite  time,  too.  For  three  days  and  nights  I  haven't 
had  a  minute's  peace  with  it.  .  .  .  I  had  to  get  up  almost 
every  quarter  of  an  hour  and  change  the  compresses. 
I'm  sure  I  must  have  disturbed  my  neighbour.  You 
know  him,  I  think  ?  .  .  . .  Would  you  kindly  tell  him,  from 
me,  that  he  need  not  stop  playing  on  my  account  ?" 

This  little  old  lady  was  simply  charming.  But  now 
Potterat  felt  that  he  must  explain  his  visit  in  some  satis- 
factory fashion.  He  had  prepared  an  elaborate  story  of 
a  sort  of  census  being  taken  by  a  Hygiene  Commission, 
and  his  being  charged  with  the  duty  of  examining  the 
heating  arrangements,  and  measuring  the  height  of  the 
ceilings,  etc.  This  would  give  him  a  plausible  reason  for 
obtaining  access  to  the  flat.  But  now  he  dismissed  this 
as  being  too  complicated,  and  made  use  of  the  fact  he 
had  just  learnt,  to  give  a  more  natural  reason  for  calling. 

"  I  live  on  the  third  floor,  Madame.  ...  My  name  is 
Potterat,  retired  police-inspector.  ...  My  wife  noticed 
your  electric  light  going  on  and  off  repeatedly,  and  she 
said  to  me:  '  I'm  sure  there's  someone  ill  there.  .  .  ,   You 


254  POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR 

must  go  up  and  ask  if  I  can  be  of  use  in  any  way  !  .  .  . 
It's  perhaps  someone  who  doesn't  know  the  place,  some 
lonely  person  !  .  . 

Mdlle.  Tannenbaum  was  quite  touched  by  this  atten- 
tion. She  promised,  as  soon  as  she  was  well  again,  to 
come  down  and  thank  Madame  Potterat  in  person  for 
her  kindness. 

"  Hallo  !  .  .  .  What  a  fine  cat !  .  .  .  May  I  stroke  it  ? 
...  I  used  to  have  two,  Citron  and  Mi-Fou,  but  Citron 
died,  and  Mi-Fou  disappeared  when  we  were  moving  in 
here  .  .  .  grief  at  leaving  his  old  home.  .  .  .  Now, 
we  haven't  got  one  ...  we  couldn't  think  of  replacing 
Mi-Fou,  we  liked  him  too  well.  ..."  As  he  talked, 
Potterat  advanced  into  the  little  room,  and  began  to 
stroke  and  pat  a  grey  cat,  who  arched  her  back  with 
pleasure  under  his  hand.  ' '  There,  there,  pussy  !  .  .  . 
You  can  purr,  can't  you  ?  .  .  ."  A  hasty  look  round, 
while  apparently  devoting  himself  to  the  cat,  was  so 
satisfactory,  that  his  last  suspicion  vanished.  To  begin 
with,  he  saw  that  an  angle  of  the  roof  jutted  out  in 
such  a  manner  that  it  effectually  hid  the  view  of  Evian ; 
and  then  also,  this  little  interior,  so  clean,  so  neat,  so 
prettily  adorned  with  bouquets  and  souvenirs,  seemed 
quite  inconsistent  with  his  suspicions. 

"  Anyhow,  Madame,  if  at  any  time  you  should  need 
help  of  any  kind  don't  forget  to  send  for  Potterat,  on 
the  third  floor,  the  door  on  the  right  as  you  go  down, 
on  the  left  coming  up." 

When  Potterat  next  saw  Zimmerli,  he  said,  somewhat 
cryptically : 

v  You  may  take  out  your  zither  again.  ...  It  isn't 
what  we  thought.  .  .  .  That  lady  opposite  you  is  simply 
a  charming  woman  of  a  certain  age,  who  would  like  to 
marry  a  musician,  a  nice-looking  man,  with  a  little  money 
in  the  bank,  fond  of  his  home,  affectionate,  and  with  a 
blameless  past,  naturally.  ...    I  believe  she's  got  an  eye 


POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR  255 

on  you  !  .  .  .  I  warn  you  so  that  you  may  take  pre- 
cautions. ..." 

Zimmerli  blushed.  And  for  the  first  time  in  his  life, 
after  Potterat  had  gone,  before  taking  up  his  zither  to 
play  '  Moonlight  in  the  Desert,'  he  got  up  and  locked  the 
door. 

To  his  wife,  Potterat  was  still  more  cryptic. 

!<  This  is  all  you've  got  to  do.  .  .  .  If  she  comes  and 
thanks  you,  you  must  pretend  that  you  know  all  about 
it.  .  .  .  Say  '  Oh,  not  at  all !  .  .  .  Delighted  !  .  .  .  Only 
too  happy  to  .  .  .'  etc.,  you  know  the  sort  of  thing  ?  I 
can't  tell  you  the  whole  circumstances.  .  .  .  It's  a  man's 
affair.  ..." 

"  I  hope  it's  not  improper,  then  ?  .  .  ." 

'  Potterat 's  Belgians  '  were  most  popular.  .  .  .  Every- 
one wanted  to  entertain  them,  at  least  once.  The 
Bigarreaus  invited  them  and  had  quite  a  party  in  their 
honour,  and  many  were  the  expressions  of  sympathy, 
and  the  maledictions  on  their  enemies,  that  rose  to  the 
ceiling.  While  plying  them  with  delicacies,  Madame 
Sauer  tried  to  draw  them  out  on  the  subject  of  their 
frightful  experiences.  But  they  always  told  the  story  of 
their  flight  in  exactly  the  same  words,  in  voices  quiet 
and  toneless,  much  as  if  they  were  reading  a  passport. 
But  after  they  had  done  so,  there  was  no  lack  of 
animation  in  their  manner,  when  they  asked  every- 
one, as  they  did,  what  news  there  was,  and  when 
they  thought  the  war  would  be  over  ?  for  everyone  had 
said:  by  the  spring,  you'll  see  it  will  be  all  over.  To 
this  people  would  reply,  "  Well,  it's  hard  to  say  !"  and 
nothing  more  would  be  said. 

'  In  the  spring  !'  .  .  .  Potterat  had  comforted  them 
with  this  assurance  all  through  the  winter.  And  now 
the  hazel  catkins  hung  like  golden  caterpillars  from  the 
branches,  the  yellow  primroses  heralded  the  blackbird's 


256  POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR 

song.  And  yet  nothing  had  changed  !  .  .  .  It  seemed 
as  if  when  all  nature  was  gay,  that  the  terrors  of 
yesterday  ought  to  vanish  .  .  .  that  courage  and  hope 
would  spring  up  again  with  the  flowers  .  .  .  that  the 
force  of  all  this  new  life  would  be  manifest  in  the  world 
of  men !  .  .  . 

Cremet,  however,  could  take  no  pleasure  in  the  eternal 
miracle  of  spring.  The  Lake,  in  winter,  with  its  tempests 
and  its  grey  pall  of  clouds,  he  loved.  But  this  smiling 
azure  Lake  filled  him  with  longing  for  the  long  rollers 
coming  in  from  the  horizon,  for  the  more  virile  sound 
of  the  sea.  .  .  . 

Jeanne  Cremet  suffered  less.  Between  her  and  Carlo 
there  had  sprung  up  an  odd  sort  of  playful  teasing  affec- 
tion, in  which  the  old  woman  showed  her  love  for  all 
young  things,  her  pleasure  in  caresses  and  laughter. 

As  soon  as  the  boy  came  back  from  school,  they  would 
play  tricks  on  each  other,  running  from  room  to  room,  and 
sometimes,  in  the  twilight,  sitting  in  a  deep  window-seat, 
she  would  tell  him  stories  of  the  fishermen  of  her  native 
town,  of  the  village  fetes,  when  the  young  girls  are 
resplendent  as  flowers,  of  the  baptisms  of  her  many 
grandchildren,  and  their  names,  Paul  and  Virginie,  the 
twins,  Leocadie,  Beatrice,  Yvonne,  Francoise,  etc.,  and 
the  boy  would  try  to  repeat  all  the  names  without 
missing  one. 

"  If  you  only  knew  the  pleasure  it  gives  me  to  hear 
you  saying  these  names  !  .  .  .     Every  night   I   dream 
that  my  little  grandchildren  are  dead.  .  .  .   But  you  don't 
think  they  are,  do  you  ?  .  .    " 
"  Not  they  !" 
"  Oh,  say  that  again  !" 
"I'm  sure  they're  not  dead  \" 

"  Oh,  Carlo,  I  do  fret  so  for  them  !  .  .  .  I  can't  help 
it !  .  .  .  The  time  seems  endless  !  .  .  .  endless  !  .  .  .  You 
don't  know  what  it  feels  like  to  have  neither  home,  nor 


fOTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR  257 

linen,  nor  furniture,  nor  my  pots  and  pans,  nor  my  own 
ways  about  me  !  .  .  .  Everything  that  one  has  touched, 
and  felt,  and  seen,  all  gone.  .  .  .  Oh,  we  must  go  back 
again  soon  .  .  .  we're  homesick  for  our  own  place  !  .  .  . 
And  they  can  do  what  they  like  to  us  !  .  .  .  In  the 
grave,  anyhow,  we  shall  meet  our  loved  ones  again  !  .  .  ." 

"  No,  no,  you  mustn't  think  of  going  back  !  .  .  .  They 
would  kill  you  !  .  .  .    You  are  all  right  here." 

She  kissed  him,  and  he,  who  as  a  general  rule,  detested 
caresses,  made  no  protest. 

Every  evening  they  read  the  papers  sitting  round  the 
table  under  the  lamp,  each  one  buried  in  these  tales  of 
butchery.     Suddenly  Potterat  broke  out: 

"Just  listen  to  this  ...  in  a  letter  written  from  the 
front:  '  I  don't  know  what  the  others  think,  but  as  far 
as  I'm  concerned,  the  one  thing  that  worries  me  is  the 
question  whether  I  shall  ever  have  the  courage  to  plunge 
my  bayonet  into  a  man's  body,  even  if  that  man  is  called 
an  enemy  ?'  .  .  .  Good  Heavens  !  What  an  awful  busi- 
ness it  is  after  all !  .  .  .  The  things  one  might  have  to 
do  !  .  .  .  All  the  same,  if  it  has  to  be,  it  must  be  done. 
.  .  .  And  when  one  has  right  on  one's  side  !  .  .  .  When 
it's  a  matter  of  saving  one's  house,  village,  wife,  children, 
country !  And  above  all,  when  war  has  been  declared 
upon  you.  .  .  .  One's  not  attacking,  one's  defending 
oneself  then,  .  .  .  besides  .  .  .  the  whole  circumstances 
are  abnormal,  and  there's  some  difference  between  the 
actual  thing  and  sitting  listening  to  a  sermon.  .  .  .  It's 
a  disagreeable  job,  no  doubt,  but  you'd  simply  have 
to  close  your  eyes,  so  as  not  to  see  too  much,  and 
then  .  .  .  zip  !  .  .  .  And  afterwards  you  nurse  him,  and  do 
what  you  can  for  him." 

"  Oh,  how  disgusting,  David  !     Do  be  quiet !  .  .  ." 

"  Disgusting,  do  you  call  it  ?  .  .  .  And  to  invade  a 
country  which  has  trusted  to  your  signature,  isn't  that 
disgusting  ?     You  women  will  never  understand  certain 

*7 


258  POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR 

things  !  .  .  .  Meantime,  they  are  mowing  down  all  the 
youth  of  Europe.  .  .  .  They  must  be  wanting  some  good 
hay  down  there.  ..." 

Cremet  raised  his  eyes  from  the  paper  he  was  reading. 

"  They  say  here  that  this  war  will  very  likely  last 
another  three  years  !  .  .  .  Oh,  it's  too  long,  too  long  ! 
.  .  .  We  must  get  back  somehow  sooner  !  .  .  ." 

"  Are  you  so  tired  of  us  then  ?" 

Cremet  shook  his  head. 

"  I'm  a  fisherman,  you  know.  That  is  my  trade.  It's 
the  only  way  I  can  earn  my  bread,  and  I've  got  all  my 
things,  there.  .  .  .  Here  I  can  do  nothing,  only  walk 
about." 

"  My  dear  fellow,  do  you  really  suppose  that  you're 
going  to  find  your  nets  and  things  there,  just  as  you  left 
them  ?"  and  Potterat  let  his  hands  fall  with  a  resounding 
slap  on  his  hips,  "...  and  your  boat  moored  to  the 
pile?  .  .  ." 

"  And  what  about  me  ?"  insisted  Madame  Cremet.  "  I 
have  my  garden  to  think  of  .  .  .  it's  the  time  to  sow 
things.  ..." 

"  And  where  do  you  think  your  spades  and  rakes  are 
now  ?  .  .  .  I  expect  that  all  you  would  find  in  your  garden 
would  be  a  "  marmite,"  but  not  the  sort  that  you  could 
boil  a  cabbage  in.  .  .  .  No,  no !  Where  the  enemy  has 
passed,  it's  well  known  that  not  much  remains  !" 

"  And  what  about  our  children  ?" 

Potterat  was  silent.  But  after  a  minute  or  so,  he 
returned  to  the  charge : 

"  To  go  all  that  long  way,  only  to  find  a  heap  of  cinders. 
.  .  .  And  since  I've  adopted  you,  as  it  were  !  .  .  .  Orphans 
need  an  adopted  father.  .  .  .  No,  I  refuse  my  consent. 
.  .  .  Just  you  stay  quietly  here,  and  don't  you  go  looking 
for  trouble." 

Potterat  was  absolutely  sincere.  He  loved  his  guests. 
Since  he  could  take  no  active  part  in  the  war,  and  yet 
felt  so  strongly  surging  up  in  him  the  instincts  of  justice, 


POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR  259 

the  natural  indignation  of  a  good  man  against  wickedness, 
the  fact  of  helping  these  people  seemed  to  lessen  to  some 
extent  the  remorse  he  felt  as  a  neutral,  whose  country 
had  made  no  protest,  standing  by  with  folded  arms. 
Looking  at  Cremet,  the  innocent  victim  of  a  dastardly 
outrage,  whose  eyes  had  the  tint  of  worn-out  things, 
the  melancholy  of  October  rain,  he  felt  inclined  to  clasp 
to  his  broad  breast  this  silent  being,  wrapped  in  gloom, 
whom  absence  from  his  home  had  turned  into  a  little 
broken  old  man.  As  he  was  going  to  bed,  Potterat 
said  to  his  wife : 

"  I  don't  believe  we'll  be  able  to  keep  them  more  than 
another  three  weeks.  .  .  .  They'll  spend  their  Easter, 
you'll  see,  amongst  the  ruins  of  their  home.  .  .  .  When 
one's  as  homesick  as  they  are,  it's  no  use  trying  to  fight 
against  it  .  .  .  it's  too  strong  for  you." 

"  It's  an  odd  thing,  this  homesickness  !  .  .  .  I'm  sure 
I  do  my  best  to  make  them  happy  !  .  .  ." 

"  No,  it's  not  odd.  It's  very  natural.  ...  As  I  said 
to  you  the  other  day,  I  should  like  to  see  you,  a 
thorough-bred  Vaudoise,  set  down  upon  a  foreign  seaside 
esplanade  !  .  .  .  Thank  goodness,  we  are  spared  that. 
We  can  keep  fairly  cheerful  on  the  whole  .  .  .  things  are 
still  pretty  well  with  us.  Of  course  we  have  difficulties, 
and  business  isn't  so  good,  and  we're  losing  some  money, 
no  doubt,  but  we  are  all  here  in  the  flesh.  Our  Cathedral 
is  intact,  our  bridges  are  all  sound,  our  roofs  have 
their  tiles,  and  our  cemeteries  are  no  fuller  than  usual. 
I  can't  imagine  anything  more  dreadful  than,  after 
having  spent  a  long  life  in  hard  work,  and  having 
saved  up  a  little  money  for  one's  old  age,  to  find 
oneself  suddenly  in  the  middle  of  the  night,  tearing 
along  a  frozen  road  with  a  bundle  on  one's  shoulder, 
darkness  in  front,  and  one's  house  in  flames  behind 
one  !  .  .  .  If  that  had  happened  to  me,  I  should 
be  suspicious,  ill-tempered,  spiteful,  atrabilious,  and 
asthmatic,  I'm  sure.  ...    I  should  hate  everybody  who 


26o  POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR 

owned  anything.  ...  If  I  saw  a  man,  looking  out 
of  the  window  of  a  comfortably  furnished  house,  fat 
and  lazy,  I  should  feel  inclined,  I  know,  to  rush  in, 
throw  him  out  of  the  window,  and  take  possession  of 
his  house.  ...  I  shouldn't  care  a  sou  for  either  God 
or  man.  ...  I  should  turn  my  back  on  them  both. 
.  .  .  Just  think  what  it  would  be  to  have  to  begin 
again  ...  to  be  like  Belisaire  .  .  .  when  one  was  well 
over  sixty,  and  had  been  accustomed  to  some  con- 
sideration !  .  .  .  A  man  would  need  to  be  a  saint  to  behave 
properly  in  such  circumstances  !  .  .  ." 

The  next  day,  Potterat  was  walking  along  the  Lake 
promenade  with  Cremet.  The  swans  on  the  Lake, 
the  seagulls  flying  in  circles,  the  snowy  crests  lingering 
on  the  higher  peaks,  the  fleecy  clouds  all  stood  out 
against  the  deep-blue  background.  Potterat  stopped  to 
look  at  it. 

'■  Would  anybody  think,  looking  at  that,"  he  said, 
"  that  it  could  be  possible  for  men  to  be  killing  each  other 
all  round  ?" 

Cremet  did  not  reply  immediately.  He  walked  on  in 
silence,  but  with  an  unexpressed  thought  in  his  eyes. 
At  last,  timidly  as  a  child  asking  permission  from  a 
schoolmaster,  but  still  decidedly,  he  spoke: 

"  Look  here,  Potterat,  I  must  speak  plainly.  .  .  .  You 
are  good  and  kind  beyond  words,  you  and  your  wife.  .  .  . 
But  this  home-sickness  is  too  strong  for  us.  .  .  .  WTe 
simply  must  go  !  .  .  .  You  can  understand  how  strong 
the  longing  for  one's  own  country,  one's  own  ways,  one's 
. .  .  well,  one's  own  country  calls  ! .  .  .  You  say,  '  There's 
no  hurry,'  but  it  is  not  this  place  that  I'm  in  a  hurry 
to  leave,  but  my  own  land  that  I'm  in  such  a  hurry  to 
get  back  to.  .  .  .  If  I  knew  that  I  should  be  shot  the 
minute  I  got  there,  I  should  want  to  go  all  the  same  !  .  .  . 
After  all,  it's  our  own  home.  In  ruins  or  not,  I  feel  I 
must  go  back  and  see  what's  going  on.  .  .  .  And  my 
wife,  too,  feels  just  the  same.  .  .  .    She  frets  after  her 


POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR  261 

house,  and  her  pots  and  pans,  and  things.  .  .  .  She  knows 
very  well  that  she  won't  find  them  .  .  .  but  at  any 
rate  she  will  be  in  the  place  again.  .  .  and  perhaps  she 
might  find  some  little  souvenir.  .  .  .  And  if  we  must 
die,  well,  we  could  die  better  there  !  .  .  .  But  it  will 
put  more  heart  into  us,  only  to  be  in  our  own  country 
again  I  .  .  ." 

Cremet  had  never  before  made  so  long  a  speech.  When 
he  had  finished,  he  looked  away. 

**  But  have  you  thought  of  everything  ?"  said  Potter  at. 
"  Have  you  really  decided  ?  .  .  ." 

"  Quite  !  .  .  .     We  must  go  !  .  .  ." 

This  was  said  in  a  tone  which  admitted  of  no  argument. 

"  Well,  I'm  not  surprised.  I  rather  expected  this.  .  .  . 
But  I  think  you're  wrong  !  .  .  .  Wrong  in  one  way,  not 
in  another.  .  .  .  Oh,  I  understand  exactly  how  you  feel ! 
...  A  man  grows  into  a  niche  of  his  own,  as  it  were,  and 
the  longer  he  lives,  the  more  difficult  it  is  to  uproot  him. 
And  to  be  exiled  at  your  age  !  .  .  .  Oh,  haven't  I  said  over 
and  over  again  that  it  must  be  terrible  !  .*..  .  Well,  if  you 
really  have  decided,  I  suppose  there's  nothing  more 
to  be  said.  I  shall  be  very  sorry  to  lose  you,  but 
I  should  think  it  a  sin  to  put  any  difficulty  in  your 
way.  .  .  ." 

Then  they  walked  the  rest  of  the  way  home  in  silence. 

That  same  evening,  as  Potterat  was  dozing  on  the 
sofa,  a  light  touch  on  his  shoulder  woke  him  with  a  start. 

"  Please  look  at  this  old  thing,"  said  Madame  Cremet, 
u  and  tell  me  if  you  think  I  should  be  able  to  sell  it  here  ?" 
and  she  held  out  to  him  a  gold  chain  with  a  medallion 
attached,  on  which  was  carved  in  beautiful  filigree  work 
a  kneeling  figure  of  the  Virgin,  encircled  by  a  motto  in 
interlaced  letters.  It  had  belonged,  she  explained,  to 
her  mother,  and  had  been  handed  down  for  many  genera- 
tions as  a  family  heirloom. 

"  When  we  had  to  run  away,  I  had  no  time  to  pack 
anything,  but  I  took  this  out  of  the  drawer  where  I  kept 


262  POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR 

it,"  she  said.  M  Do  you  think  it  would  fetch  enough  .  .  . 
for  the  journey  ?  .  .  ." 

"  What's  that  you  say  ?  .  .  .  For  the  journey  ?  .  .  . 
Madame,  what  are  you  thinking  about  ?  .  .  .  As  if  I 
should  let  you  pay  for  the  journey  !  .  .  .  If  you'd  rather, 
I'll  buy  this  from  you  for  the  price  of  the  tickets,  but  as 
I  shouldn't  know  what  to  do  with  it,  I'll  give  it  back  to 
you." 

"  Oh,  Monsieur  !  .  .  ." 

"That's  all  right!  That's  all  right!  .  .  .  It's  a 
pleasure  to  me.  .  .  ." 

"  Oh,  how  can  we  thank  you  ?  .  .  ." 

"  How  ?  . .  .  Why,  by  just  glancing  at  the  thermometer, 
if  you  don't  mind,  and  telling  me  how  many  degrees  it 
registers  ?  .  .  ." 

"  Ah  !"  sighed  Cremet.  "  I  hope  the  weather  won't 
hinder  us  from  starting  on  Monday.  ...  I  know  it 
seems  mad  to  go,  but  we  must,  we  must.  ..." 

They  wandered  restlessly  about  the  flat;  they  packed, 
and  unpacked,  and  packed  again,  their  little  portmanteau. 

"  What  is  the  matter  with  you  ?  .  .  ."  said  Madame 
Potterat  once,  a  little  crossly.  "  We  are  most  anxious 
for  you  to  stay  with  us,  but  you  want  to  go.  .  .  .  Well, 
then,  why  don't  you  settle  it  once  for  all  ?  .  .  ." 

They  ate  very  little  these  days,  but  furtively  watched 
their  hosts  and  the  furniture.  In  this  house  everything 
seemed  perfectly  ordered.  And  in  the  streets  people 
went  to  and  fro,  each  one  with  a  key  in  his  pocket,  each 
one  with  a  home  of  some  kind  to  go  to.  They  had  only 
to  open  a  door  and  they  were  at  home  in  their  own 
houses,  sheltered  from  wind  and  weather.  These  people 
had  furniture,  and  clothes.  .  .  .  But  what  were  they 
going  to  find  when  they  got  home  ?  .  .  .  The  skeleton 
of  their  house,  the  walls*  cracked,  the  beams  charred  ? 
.  .  .  And  the  children  ?..-._  They  had  heard  so  many 
dreadful  things  !  .  .  .  And  yet  they  were  obstinately  set 


POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR  263 

upon  going  .  .  .  upon  knowing  the  worst  at  all  costs. 
Better  even,  if  it  must  be,  to  stand  weeping  before 
their  ruined  hearth,  where  they  could  reconstruct  it  in 
imagination,  .  .  .  than  stay,  not  knowing.  .  .  . 

The  Potterats  were  silent.  What  could  they  say  in 
face  of  this  blind  homing  instinct  ?  .  .  . 

At  last  the  day  was  fixed.  The  train  left  at  eight 
o'clock.  The  steep  climb  up  to  the  station  reminded  the 
Cremets  of  the  evening  when  they  had  arrived,  tired  out, 
stunned  with  terror  and  fatigue.  Five  months  ago  !  .  .  . 
And  now  they  were  going  back  into  that  hell !  .  .  .  The 
combined  call  of  race,  of  the  place  where  they  had  been 
born  and  brought  up,  of  a  hundred  half -forgotten  things, 
drew  them  back  irresistibly.  Had  they  not  been  wrong 
to  stay  away  so  long  from  the  blood-stained  sunsets, 
the  well-remembered  roads,  now  trodden  only  by  heavy 
military  boots  ?  .  .  .  They  walked  through  the  crowds 
unseeing,  indifferent  to  all  that  was  passing,  crushed 
by  the  fear  that  had  settled  down  upon  their  hearts. 
Poor  little  Mother  and  Father  Cremet ! 

"  Now,  Carlo,  hurry  up  !     Come  and  say  good-bye  !" 

Carlo  was  crying  behind  his  mother's  back.  They  all 
looked  at  each  other. 

"  I  don't  know  how  to.  .  .  .  I  can't  tell  you.  .  .  .  We 
shall  never  forget  your  great  kindness  to  us.  .  .  ." 

"  Why  don't  you  stay  with  us  ?  .  .  ." 

'*  Oh,  it's  not  possible." 

"  Come  along  !  .  .  .  Get  out  of  the  train,  and  let  us  all 
go  back  to  the  house  !" 

"  No,  no,  we  must  go  !" 

It  seemed  truly  as  if  some  relentless  Fate  were  dragging 
them  from  that  haven  of  peace  to  plunge  them  again 
into  the  black  cloud  of  war,  but  there  was  their  country, 
the  graves  of  their  dead,  their  garden,  the  sea.  .  .  . 

"  Write  to  us,  anyhow,  and  if  you  have  need  of  any- 
thing be  sure  and  let  us  know.  .  .  .  And  if  they  worry 
you,  threaten  them  with  Potterat,  of  the  Swiss  Police. 


264  POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR 

.  .  .  And  if  you  can't  get  along,  just  you  come  straight 
back  here  as  quick  as  you  can.  We'll  keep  your  bed 
ready  in  the  drawing-room.  ..." 

"  Take  your  seats,  please." 

They  were  already  in  the  carriage,  looking  very  much 
as  they  did  when  they  arrived;  the  same  frightened 
fugitive  air,  the  rounded  backs,  the  anxious  glances,  the 
hands  meekly  folded  on  their  knees. 

"  Tell  your  countrymen  that  we  think  of  them.  .  .  . 
Tell  them.  .  .  ." 

But  the  train  was  already  in  motion.  Gently  it  glided 
out,  with  the  two  thin  old  faces  so  close  together  that 
they  seemed  almost  one,  as  they  waved  their  handker- 
chiefs out  of  the  window,  until  the  last  carriage  hid  them 
from  sight  as  the  train  rounded  a  curve.  .  .  .  They  were 
gone.  For  a  moment  the  Potterats  stood  gazing  after 
them,  feeling  suddenly  desolate,  they  hardly  knew  why. 

At  the  Avenue  des  Roses  they  often  talked  of  the 
Cremets;  for  them  the  couple  personified  exile,  the 
the  pangs  of  home-sickness;  they  poured  out  upon  them 
all  the  pity  which  the  war  continually  revived  in  their 
warm  hearts.  But  from  the  wanderers,  not  a  word 
came  !  They  wrote  to  them,  but  they  never  knew 
whether  the  letters  were  received  or  not.  And  this 
silence  seemed  only  to  keep  them  more  strongly  in 
remembrance. 

"  I  say,  father,"  Carlo  would  say,  "  after  the  war  is 
over,  shall  we  go  and  see  them,  and  take  them  money  to 
build  their  house  again  ?" 

J  Well,  anyhow,  we  might  go  and  see  them." 

And  sometimes,  when  the  rain  beat  on  the  window- 
panes  at  night,  Madame  Potterat  would  say,  with  a 
shiver : 

"  We  ought  never  to  have  let  them  go,  poor  old  things  !" 

"  Perhaps  not  .  .  .  but  they  would  certainly  have  died, 
both  of  them,  if  we  hadn't.  And  they  preferred  to  die 
at  home.  .  .  .   After  all,  it  is  instinct.  ..." 


CHAPTER  XII 

The  little  local  train  sped  onward,  chasing  the  butterflies, 
passing  a  country  cart  with  a  round-shouldered  driver. 
After  the  dreary  hideousness  of  some  outlying  suburbs, 
with  high  blocks  of  flats  dotted  about  over  dreary  wastes 
of  bare  building  land,  came  the  joy  of  open  spaces 
bathed  in  sunlight,  and  the  rhythm  of  the  far  blue  hills. 
Potterat  felt  no  inclination  to  open  the  newspaper  where 
staring  headlines  announced  the  daily  sum  of  human 
crime.  This  day  seemed  set  apart  for  rest  and  calm. 
An  old  woman  was  nodding  over  her  basket,  some  men 
were  discussing  the  price  of  milk,  a  mother  surrounded 
by  three  fat,  rosy-cheeked  youngsters  pointed  out  to  them 
the  villages,  and  a  corner  of  the  Lake  seen  between  two 
hills. 

"  Who  painted  your  cheeks  that  lovely  red,  little  ones, 
hey  ?"  said  Potterat,  then  without  waiting  for  a  reply, 
he  jumped  up,  seized  his  rifle,  and  got  out  on  the  platform 
of  the  little  station.     Some  voices  murmured: 

"  There's  someone  going  to  shoot !  .  .  .  There's  a  fete 
at  Bioley.  ..." 

Potterat  walked  gaily  along  a  narrow  path  between 
two  hedges.  What  a  profusion  of  flowers  !  Here  and 
there,  amidst  gold  and  blue  and  white,  were  green  patches 
of  spring  wheat.  The  larks  soared  up  in  the  blue, 
fell  like  a  stone,  then  launched  themselves  again,  as  if 
intoxicated  with  the  joy  of  life,  uttering  their  little 
cries,  their  cry  of  joy,  above  the  jays  chattering  in 
the  copse,  above  the  midges,  dancing  madly  in  the 
sun,  they  also  sending  their  little  hum  into  the  great 
silence  of  the  fields.     Potterat  thought : 

265 


266  POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR 

"  It's  absolutely  idiotic  to  worry  oneself  about  anything 
when  there  are  such  heaps  of  flowers.  .  .  .  Oh,  let  them 
kill  each  other  as  much  as  they  like  !  .  .  .  The  fruit  ripens, 
the  blackbirds  build  their  nests,  the  plants  grow  up  just 
the  same.  ..." 

Every  little  path  branching  off  across  the  meadows, 
brought  some  fresh  recollection  to  him.  Here  the  brook, 
there  the  little  pond  of  clear  water,  the  little  thicket  of 
hazel-bushes. 

"  My  word  !  There's  the  place  where,  forty-five  years 
ago,  I  upset  the  cart  of  wheat-sheaves  !  What  a  chaffing 
I  had  over  it !  They  laughed  enough  at  me  in  the 
village  !  .  .  .  and  a  fortnight  after  I  was  in  the  Police  ! 
...  I  believe  now  that  the  whole  thing  was  fore-ordained. 
.  .  .  Anyhow,  since  then  I've  made  my  way  in  the  world. 
I  can  hold  my  head  up  with  the  best  of  them  !" 

Once  more  Potterat  regarded  with  admiration  the 
clearness  of  the  water,  reflecting  the  threads  of  a  spider's 
web,  and  the  swallows  overhead,  against  the  blue  of  the 
sky.  Fancifully  he  leaned  over  it,  half  expecting  to  see 
again  the  young  man  of  former  days. 

"  Hallo  !  Do  you  know  me  ?  Forty-five  years  is  a 
good  deal  of  a  weight  added  on  to  one's  shoulders  !  .  .  . 
Look  again  !  .  .  .  The  hair  is  much  the  same  .  .  .  and  there 
are  no  spectacles  on  the  nose  .  .  .  the  eyes  are  as  bright  as 
ever,  the  moustache  as  flowing,  the  cheeks  as  red  !  .  .  . 
Ah,  but  the  double  chin  !  .  .  .  Yes,  there's  a  good  deal 
more  thorax  there,  I  must  admit !  .  .  .  But  I'm  not  half 
a  bad-looking  fellow  still !  .  .  .  I  don't  look  old  !  .  .  .  It 
wouldn't  seem  so  very  ridiculous  for  me  to  be  offering 
a  bouquet  to  a  sweetheart  even  now !  .  .  .  Courage, 
Potterat,  you've  got  many  a  good  time  before  you 
still!  .  .  ." 

Delighted  with  the  confirmation  of  the  brook,  he  went 
on.  And  when  presently  he  met  some  people,  he  saluted 
them  with  a  gay  '  Good-morning  !' 


POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR  267 

'-  They're  Catholics  going  to  Mass/'  he  said  to  himself. 
".  They're  quite  right.  Everyone  ought  to  hold  to  his 
religion.  If  I  can  manage  it,  I'll  try  to  go  to  a  service 
at  Bioley.  .  .  .  Not  that  the  weather  invites  one  to 
such  exercises,  nor  the  things  one  sees  on  every  hand. 
...  On  every  stalk  or  branch  there  are  pairs.  These 
insects,  .  .  .  they  don't  distinguish  between  Sundays  and 
other  days.  .  .  .  Some  people  say  that  they  only  live  three 
days  ...  if  that's  so,  perhaps  they're  right  to  make 
the  most  of  their  time.  .  .  .  There  is  mercy  for  every 
sinner  !  .  .  ." 

Presently  the  village  came  in  sight,  rising  high  above 
the  fields.  How  often,  both  at  Thierrens,  where  he  was 
brought  up,  and  here,  where  he  had  been  employed,  had 
Potterat  driven  along  this  same  road  returning  from  his 
work,  pulling  the  reins  to  make  the  mare  go  faster.  .  .  . 
By  the  way,  what  was  the  name  of  the  old  mare  of 
Bioley  ?  .  .  .  Ah,  of  course,  Melanie  !  .  .  .  And  she  was 
gone,  too,  killed  by  a  rusty  nail,  which  had  got  buried 
in  her  foot.  ... 

"  Well,  now,  to  come  back  to  the  present,  who  is  there 
that  I  know  now  ?  .  .  .  Old  Noverraz,  who  used  to  be 
a  perfect  glutton  for  work,  and  kept  you  mowing  for  three 
hours  at  a  stretch  in  the  middle  of  the  morning  !  .  .  . 
I  can  feel  my  back  aching  still !  .  .  .  But  the  house 
that  I  sold  him,  he  did  pay  a  good  price  for  that.  .  .  . 
Retributive  justice  !  .  .  .  And  Suzette  ?  .  .  .  I  wonder 
if  she's  still  alive  !  .  .  .  And  I  wonder  if  the  old  sign- 
board is  still  up  at  the  inn,  with  its  '  Au  Midi,  c'est 
toujours  Guex !'  .  .  .  And  Burnat,  the  syndic  ?  .  .  .  Oh, 
he  must  be  in  his  grave  by  now,  he  would  be  over 
eighty  !  .  .  .  Then  there  was  a  big  man  with  a  beard, 
and  a  little  lame  man,  and  Bernioud,  the  drunkard.  .  .  . 
We  used  to  call  him  Tomato.  .  .  .  Well,  well !  When  one 
knows  the  village  topers  and  good  fellows,  it's  all  right. 
.  .  .  Since  they  have  done  me  the  honour  of  making  me 


268  POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR 

an  honorary  member  of  the  Rifle  Club,  the  least  I  can  do 
is  to  come  to  one  of  their  annual  meetings  anyhow,  .  .  . 
and  then,  I  wanted  a  glimpse  of  my  native  place  !  .  .  ." 

Courtyards  were  swept;  dunghills  neatly  piled  up; 
flowers  bordered  all  the  vegetable  gardens.  Somewhere 
a  hen  had  just  laid  an  egg,  and  was  loudly  announcing 
the  fact.  A  dog,  lying  in  front  of  his  kennel,  his  nose  on 
his  outstretched  paws,  opened  an  eye,  and  growled 
gently.  Behind  half  closed  shutters,  here  and  there, 
people  looked  out.  It  was  eleven  o'clock,  and  Sunday, 
a  June  Sunday,  of  sunshine  and  perfume.  Presently, 
the  noise  of  balls  rolling  along  a  board,  interrupted  by 
another  noise  as  of  a  shock,  when  the  skittles  were  bowled 
over,  then  a  burst  of  laughter,  and  then  he  came  suddenly 
on  a  group  of  boys  and  young  men,  some  with  their 
hands  deep  in  their  pockets,  others  keeping  the  score  in 
chalk,  others  drinking,  their  hats  on  the  backs  of  their 
heads. 

"  Is  there  anyone  at  home  ?"  called  out  Potterat,  as 
he  knocked  at  the  door  where  old  Noverraz  used  to  live. 
Just  as  formerly,  the  bees  were  flying  in  and  out  of  their 
hives,  the  foliage  of  the  trees  hung  over  the  moss-grown 
walls,  the  pent-house  shades  over  the  windows  seemed 
like  hands  put  up  to  shield  them  from  the  sun.  An  old 
woman,  very  tall  and  thin,  hobbled  across  the  courtyard. 
Playing  on  her  rounded  back,  her  small  head,  and  her 
voluminous  petticoats,  the  sun  threw  an  amusingly  fan- 
tastic shadow  of  her  on  the  ground,  forming  three  circles, 
one  above  the  other,  the  topmost  like  the  dot  of  an  '  i.' 
Her  face  was  worn  with  long  years  of  monotonous  toil, 
and  her  hands,  clasping  a  bowl  of  grain,  were  wrinkled 
and  brown.  She  glided  along  the  mossy  wall,  and 
between  the  garden  beds,  filled  with  lilies  as  white  as 
her  snowy  cap,  past  the  gnarled  apple-trees,  whose 
branches  resembled  her  own  bowed  back.  Presently 
she  returned,  her  bowl  empty  of  grain,  which  she  had 


POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR  269 

scattered  over  the  chicken-run,  and  filled  with  eggs, 
nestling  on  a  bed  of  straw,  over  which  she  spread  her 
blue-veined  wrinkled  hand  to  guard  them. 

"  That's  Suzette,  the  old  servant !"  whispered  Pot- 
terat.  "  Why,  she  was  an  old  woman  ten  years  ago  1 
She  must  have  altered  a  good  deal  since  then.  .  .  . 
She  was  crotchety  enough;  I  suppose  she  is  impossible 
now.  ...  All  the  same,  I've  got  a  very  soft  spot  in 
my  heart  for  old  women  !  .  .  ."  Potterat  knocked  again 
at  the  door,  calling  out  as  he  did  so,  "  Is  anyone  at 
home  ?  .  .  ." 

A  man's  step  was  heard  coming  along  the  flagged  hall. 
Potterat,  with  the  sunlight  behind  him,  and  Noverraz, 
his  face  in  the  full  light,  stood  facing  each  other.  Both 
exclaimed  almost  simultaneously: 

"  Do  you  remember  me  ?  .  .  .  It  was  I  who  sold  your 
father  this  house  the  year  before  you  were  married  !" 

"  Of  course  I  remember  you,  Inspector  Potterat.  .  .  . 
As  large  as  life!" 

They  came  into  the  kitchen,  which  seemed  full  of 
children. 

"  I  often  wondered  how  you  were  getting  on.  I 
remember  your  wedding.  You  married  a  young  lady 
from  Baulmes.  ...  I  needn't  ask  if  it  was  a  success.  .  .  . 
Five  children  !  .  .  .  And  such  fine  children,  too  !  .  .  . 
Good-morning,  Madame  !     I  congratulate  you.  .  .  ." 

The  mother  smiled,  and  went  about  her  work,  pausing 
to  wipe  the  nose  of  one  child,  to  scold  another,  to  lift 
the  lid  of  a  saucepan  on  the  fire,  in  which  a  sausage  was 
cooking. 

"  Well,  and  how  are  you?  .  .  .  The  syndic  told  us 
that  you  were  coming  down  to  shoot  for  us.  .  .  .  I 
was  very  glad  to  hear  it.  .  .  .  My  father  hopes  you'll  dine 
with  him.  .  .  .  He's  expecting  you.  .  .  .  He's  not  able  to 
get  out  and  about  much  now,  but  he'll  be  very  glad  to 
see  you  again.  .  .  .   Just  for  the  moment,  I'm  rather  tied 


270  POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR 

to  the  house.  ...  I've  got  a  cow  and  a  calf  sick.  .  .  .  And 
what  do  they  think  of  the  war  in  your  part  ?  .  .  ." 

"  Well,  we  think  ...  we  think  that  ..."  Just  at  this 
moment  a  clattering  of  hoofs  was  heard  on  the  flagstones 
outside,  and  a  horse  put  its  head  in  at  the  kitchen  door, 
craning  its  neck  round  to  look  at  its  master. 

•'•  That's  Mignon  coming  for  his  sugar.  .  .  .  Every  day 
he  must  have  his  lump  of  sugar.  .  .  .  There  !  .  .  .  And 
here  comes  Suzette,  do  you  remember  her  ?  .  .  .  She's 
as  deaf  as  a  post  now.  .  .  .  Suzette  !  Do  you  recognize 
this  gentleman  from  town  ?  .  .  ." 

Suzette  lifted  her  trembling  head  with  an  effort,  her 
still  keen  grey  eyes  looking  out  of  a  brown,  wizened 
face. 

"  This  is  the  one  who  didn't  like  too  much  reaping. 
...  Oh  yes,  I  recognize  him,  only  he's  fatter  than  he  used 
to  be.  ..." 

"  My  word  !  We've  grown  in  opposite  directions,  you 
and  I  !  .  .  ."  said  Potterat,  teasingly.  "  One  of  us  is 
like  a  mill-wheel,  and  the  other  like  a  lath." 

Someone  just  then  called  Noverraz  out  to  the  calf. 

"Don't  let  me  keep  you  .  .  .  you  go  along  !  .  .  .  Good- 
bye for  the  present,  Madame.  .  .  .  Good-bye,  kiddies  ! 
.  .  .  Your  father's  house  is  the  last  on  the  left-hand  side, 
at  the  top  of  the  village,  isn't  it  ?  .  .  ." 

"  That's  right  !  .  .  .  Well,  we'll  see  you  again  this 
afternoon." 

Potterat  found  old  Noverraz  very  frail-looking,  thin 
and  bent.  It  appeared  that  since  he  had  been  caught  in 
a  hailstorm  while  at  work,  he  had  suffered  agonies  from 
rheumatism.  The  doctor  could  do  nothing  for  him.  .  .  . 
but  in  spite  of  it,  Noverraz,  still  a  slave  to  work,  insisted 
on  dragging  himself  out  to  the  fields,  got  wet  at  times, 
and  wore  himself  out  till  he  was  confined  to  his  bed  for 
three  weeks  at  least  twice  a  year.  .  .  . 

"  He  is  so  reckless  !  .  .  ."  complained  his  wife. 


POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR  271 

Feeling  vaguely  ashamed  of  his  own  physical  robust- 
ness, Potterat  strove  to  minimize  it  by  talking  of  his 
growing  shortness  of  breath,  of  his  increasing  trouble  in 
going  uphill,  of  his  failing  memory.  .  .  . 

"  I  assure  you,  sometimes  I  can't  remember  people's 
names  for  the  life  of  me  !  .  .  .  Quite  simple  names,  too, 
like  .  .  .  like  Schmidhauser,  for  instance.  ...  I  can  think 
of  it  now,  but  sometimes  it's  two  hours  and  more  before 
I  can  remember  it.  .  .  ." 

Giving  free  rein  to  his  fancy,  he  discoursed  eloquently 
about  the  Cremets,  and  the  Belgian  refugees  generally, 
about  the  Russians,  the  Turks,  the  Serbians,  J  off  re,  etc. 

f*  Will  you  come  to  the  table  ?  .  . .  Here's  the  soup  ! . . ." 

They  had  placed  him  with  his  back  to  the  wall  in  the 
seat  of  honour.  In  front  of  him  were  the  two  men- 
servants,  and  Jenny,  the  unmarried  daughter  of  the 
house.  To  the  left  was  the  window,  which  threw  a  green 
light  on  the  ceiling,  a  blue  light  on  the  table ;  to  the  right 
the  door,  and  near  it,  some  whips  on  the  wall,  and 
the  tall  grandfather  clock. 

Madame  Noverraz  came  and  went,  serving  the  stewed 
rabbit,  the  cabbage,  the  potatoes.  As  she  went  back- 
wards and  forwards,  she  talked. 

"  I  wonder  if  all  the  things  we  hear  are  true  ?  .  .  .  All 
those  dreadful  atrocities  ?  .  .  .  Surely  it  isn't  possible  ! 
.  .  .  They  print  those  things  just  to  sell  the  papers.  .  .  . 
In  any  case,  we  haven't  seen  anything  for  ourselves  .  .  . 
and  it  doesn't  do  to  talk  too  freely,  you  know,  it  might 
do  us  harm." 

Potterat  was  indignant. 

"  You  are  very  happy  and  comfortable  down  here," 
he  said.  "  You  have  plenty  of  room,  plenty  of  fuel, 
vegetables,  milk,  everything  you  need.  .  .  .  You  may 
take  it  as  truth  that  those  photographs  were  taken  on 
the  spot  and  that  those  people  are  wandering  about 
amongst  the  ruins.  ..." 


272  POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR 

Madame  Noverraz  put  the  cake  on  the  table. 

"  Do  you  think  they  are  likely  to  come  here  ?" 

"  We  don't  know.  .  .  .  But  it's  evident  they're  not  too 
confident  at  Berne,  seeing  that  they've  prohibited  those 
lectures  of  M.  Fuglister's." 

"  Well,  I  say,  what's  done  is  done .  .  .  and  talking  about 
it  won't  mend  matters.  .  .  .  Besides,  can  we  help  what 
goes  on  ?  .  .  .  No.  .  .  .  Then  it's  much  better  to  be  silent 
about  it.  .  .  .  One  can't  be  punished  for  not  talking. 
But  if  we  talk  too  much,  we  might  get  into  trouble." 

Potterat  wanted  a  second  helping  of  the  very  excellent 
cake,  so  he  said  no  more  for  the  moment.  Besides,  it 
was  difficult  to  realize,  in  these  peaceful  surroundings, 
in  front  of  the  coffee-pot,  and  the  cherry-brandy,  that 
there  actually  was  a  war  going  on.  It  all  seemed  so  far 
away,  so  unreal.  ...  A  geranium  was  in  bloom  on  the 
window-sill,  the  fountain  in  the  courtyard  threw  its 
silver  thread  up  in  the  sunshine,  a  cock  crowed,  perched 
on  the  gate-post. 

"  Well,  they're  far  enough  away  at  present,  thank 
goodness  !"  .  .  .  said  Noverraz,  wiping  his  moustache  with 
the  tip  of  his  tongue.  "  But  all  the  same,  they're  very 
powerful.  .  .  .  It's  just  as  well  to  keep  a  still  tongue  about 
them.  ..." 

A  long  succession  of  meadows  followed  the  line  of  the 
highroad  for  a  time,  then  turned  off,  and  followed  a 
hedge  up  towards  a  wood.  A  chateau  was  perched  on 
the  summit  of  the  hill,  then  again  more  fields  spread  their 
carpet  of  green  round  the  village  church  tower,  and  the 
roofs  of  the  houses  glittered  in  the  sun  like  precious 
stones;  beyond,  the  confused  shapes  and  colours  of  the 
cultivated  lands  with  browns,  and  yellows,  and  blacks, 
melted  into  a  soft  haze,  and  over  all  rose  and  floated  a 
blue  smoke.  .  .  . 

In  one  of  these  meadows  stood  the  butts,  with  their 


POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR  273 

bull's-eyes  of  black,  and  above  them  those  capital  letters, 
which  the  little  children  point  out  to  each  other  with 
pride,  for  they  are  the  same  as  those  on  the  first  page 
of  their  reading-books:  A.B.C.D.  . 

These  letters  can  be  seen  from  a  long  way  off;  every 
village  has  its  own.  And  every  Sunday  afternoon,  men 
may  be  seen  coming  to  them,  rifle  on  shoulder,  across  the 
ripening  fields. 

Having  put  on  their  red  coats,  the  markers  lie  down 
behind  the  mounds,  and  soon  the  meadows  resound  with 
the  noise  of  rifle-shots.  They  echo  and  re-echo  in  the 
depths  of  the  woods,  taking  on  something  of  the  gravity 
of  their  solitude. 

To-day  it  is  the  turn  of  the  riflemen  of  Bioley,  and  it 
is  the  woods  of  Orjulaz,  forming  a  background  to  the 
meadows,  with  serried  rows  of  tall  pine-trunks,  and  their 
sombre  drapery  of  foliage  above,  which  carry  to  the 
distant  horizon  the  echoing  reports  of  rifles  pointed  at 
the  targets. 

There  are  some  twenty  or  thirty  men  assembled  there, 
from  young  men  scarcely  out  of  boyhood,  to  middle-aged 
and  even  old  men,  all  very  quiet  and  sparing  both  of  word 
and  gestures,  but  indulging  in  a  sudden  burst  of  laughter 
now  and  then  at  one  of  Bernioud's  broad  jokes.  All 
these  men  know  each  other  well.  They  know  how  many 
cows  belong  to  each,  the  height  of  each  others'  fences, 
who  has  one  horse  and  who  two,  who  has  none,  but 
goats  instead,  and  all  the  hundred  and  one  little  details 
of  village  life  and  history ;  but  there  are  too  many  present 
to  discuss  them  now,  and  the  shooting  occupies  all  minds, 
especially  as  Potterat  is  shooting  with  them  to-day — 
Potterat,  who  carried  off  the  laurel  crown  once  at  Berne. 
.  .  .  He  has  the  crack  marksman's  eye,  that  clear 
piercing  eye  which  half  shuts  at  times,  as  if  to  focus 
distances,  and  fix  them  accurately  on  one  point.  In 
that  pure  air,  that  exquisite  peace,  near  the  hemlock 

18 


274  POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR 

and  sheep's  parsley  spreading  their  fairy  lace  against 
the  dark  background  of  the  wood,  Potterat  forgot 
for  the  moment  the  nightmare  of  the  winter,  the  news- 
papers, the  Belgians,  and  entered  thoroughly  into  the 
joy  of  the  summer  fields,  and  the  pleasure  of  being 
once  more  amongst  his  old  friends.  ...  A  bird  suddenly 
burst  into  song  close  by.  .  .  .  Insects  ran  over  his  hand. 
.   .   .    The  sound  of  a  bell  came  from  somewhere  far 

off 

"  They're  just  going  to  begin  ..."  said  a  placid  voice, 
as  a  man,  sitting  on  a  stone,  sounded  three  times  a  long- 
drawn  note  on  a  horn,  which  was  re-echoed  from  the 
woods  and  from  the  horizon.  The  creatures  of  the  wood 
know  well  what  that  sound  means,  and  the  jay,  perched 
on  the  topmost  branch  of  a  cherry-tree,  near  the  targets, 
fled  chattering  indignantly.  The  markers  take  refuge 
behind  the  slope.  Four  men  kneel  in  a  row,  the  butt- 
ends  of  their  rifles  on  their  shoulders,  their  heads  on 
one  side,  one  eye  closed,  the  other  wide  open,  for  it 
must  look  along  the  barrel,  right  on  to  the  black  round 
which  is  the  bull's-eye.  The  rifle-barrels  are  absolutely 
motionless,  so  calm  are  these  men,  so  easily,  yet  firmly, 
seated  on  one  heel,  the  chest  thrown  well  forward,  in 
perfect  equilibrium.  The  trigger  is  released  slowly.  .  .  . 
Ah  !  .  .  .  Pahud  has  the  shakes !  .  .  .  That's  what  comes 
of  taking  aim  too  long  !  .  .  .  Suddenly,  the  rifleman 
recoils  as  if  he  had  received  a  blow,  the  barrel  of  the  rifle 
points  heavenward,  where  a  light  puff  of  smoke  may 
be  seen  rising.  Installed  under  his  big  umbrella,  the 
secretary  has  seized  his  pencil.  .  . .  Tu-u-u  !  again  sounds 
the  horn.  At  once  the  markers  behave  like  demented 
poppies.  .  .  .  Each  of  them  has  a  long  pole  with  a 
palette  fastened  at  one  end,  black  on  one  side,  white  on 
the  other.  This  they  hold  up  in  front  of  the  target, 
opposite  the  little  hole  where  the  bullet  passed  through, 
over  which  they  paste  a  patch  of  paper.     Sometimes 


POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR  275 

instead  of  holding  it  in  one  place  against  the  target, 
they  wave  it  backwards  and  forwards  like  a  pendulum; 
that  means  a  miss :  the  ball  has  gone  wide  of  the  mark. 

"  Barbezat,  two  !  .  .  .  Guex,  three  !  .  .  .  Panchaud, 
four  !  .  .  .  (Four  is  the  highest  score.)  .  .  .  Pahud,  a 
miss.  ..." 

Everyone  laughs,  for  all  know  the  cause  of  Pahud 's 
misfortune. 

As  soon  as  one  group  of  marksmen  has  fired,  another 
takes  its  place.  Marc,  Henri's  son,  a  novice;  the  syndic, 
a  big  man  with  an  immense  neck;  Polien,  the  mole- 
catcher;  and  Martinet,  the  milkman.  And  the  Orjulaz 
woods  echoed  and  re-echoed. 

"  One  !  .  .  ."  grumbled  the  syndic.  "  Damn  !  I  knew 
I  should  have  bad  luck.  The  first  person  I  met  this 
morning  was  Suzette  !  .  .  .  How  could  anybody  shoot 
straight  who  had  that  scarecrow  still  in  his  eye  ?  .  .  ." 

The  horn  sounded,  the  poppies  rushed  madly  about, 
at  intervals,  and  the  intermittent  firing  went  on.  .  .  , 

"  Now,"  Potterat  addressed  himself,  as  he  stood 
watching  with  folded  arms.  M  It's  up  to  you  to  let  them 
see  what  you  can  do  !  .  .  .  If  you  fail,  after  coming  all 
this  way,  they'll  think  very  little  of  you  !'-..-.  And 
the  wife  will  feel  so  proud,  too,  if  you  bring  home  a 
prize  !  .  .  .  Courage  !  .  .  .  Three  '  pendulums '  running 
for  the  milkman  !  .  .  .  He'll  be  able  to  set  up  as  a 
clock-maker  soon  !  .  .  ." 

At  last  it  was  his  turn.  Potterat,  after  depositing  his 
coat  and  waistcoat  on  some  bushes,  took  his  place  de- 
liberately. His  braces,  gaily  embroidered  with  Federal 
crosses,  seemed  to  sink  into  his  fat  shoulders.  As  he 
knelt  down  gravely,  and  inclined  his  head  to  one  side 
over  his  rifle,  the  pointed  end  of  his  moustache  seemed 
to  laugh  up  at  the  sky,  and  his  arms,  like  those  of  a 
big  baby,  his  plump  torso,  and  the  straining  strap  of  his 
trousers,  looked  incongruous  enough. 


276  POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR 

"  He's  a  powerful  lump  !  .  .  ."  said  Pahud. 

"  Pan  !  .  .  .  flah  !  .  .  ."  echoed  from  the  wood. 

The  poppies  ran  forward.  Potterat  mopped  his  fore- 
head. "  Why  don't  they  hurry  up  ?  .  .  .  What  are 
they  so  long  about  ?  ..."  he  murmured  to  himself. 
"  And  yet  I  have  aimed  and  got  a  bull's-eye  at  six 
o'clock,  at  a  small  target  too !  .  .  .  Those  villains 
have  recognized  my  shots,  that's  what  it  is  !  .  .  .  there's 
something  sharp  and  decided  about  them,  .  .  .  and  they 
are  going  to  play  the  fool  with  me  !  .  .  .  I  say  to  myself 
when  I'm  firing,  '  You  may  be  neutral  all  right,  but  you 
can  fire  all  the  same,  as  if  you  had  something  in  front  of 
you,  and  don't  you  miss  it !'  .  .  .  Ah,  that's  all  right  !  .  .  . 
"  Potterat,  four  !  .  .  .  Four  to  Potterat !  .  .  .  Same  again, 
bang  in  the  eye.  .  .  .  Potterat,  four  !  .  .  .  Four  to  Pot- 
terat !  .  .  .  Now  another  in  the  same  place  !  .  .  .  No, 
Potterat,  three  !  .  .  .  It's  this  blessed  sun  gets  in  the  way 
of  my  aim.  .  .  .  Now  the  last.  .  .  .  Four  again  ?  .  .  .  Pot- 
terat, four  !  .  .  .   Four  to  Potterat !  .  .  ." 

Presently  it  was  time  to  rest  and  eat.  They  sat  down 
on  the  grass,  and  unpacked  from  the  baskets  bread  and 
cheese,  and  bottles  of  wine.  And  the  markers,  Godoille, 
who  had  buried  three  wives,  and  Vinoche,  a  little  fat, 
red-cheeked  man,  ran  up  to  have  a  drink. 

"  Have  a  glass,  Godoille  ?" 

"  I  don't  mind  if  I  do  !  .  .  ." 

"  And  you,  Vinoche  ?" 

**  Well,  I  won't  say  no  !  .  .  .  Who  was  it  made  that  last 
series  of  four  fours  and  a  three  ?" 

"  It  was  Monsieur  Potterat  here  !" 

"  Yes,  it  was  I  !  .  .  .  And  that  three,  you  know,  was 
almost  a  four:  It's  in  the  family.  .  .  .  An  uncle  of  my 
cousin's  aunt  at  Assens  was  the  best  shot  of  the  whole 
Canton.  ..." 

They  ate,  and  drank,  and  chatted.  Potterat  related 
his  experiences  in  the  way  of  spy-catching,  not  without 


POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR  277 

a  little  exaggeration.  But  how  remote  these  people 
were  from  all  that  was  going  on  in  the  great  world  ! 
Potterat,  a  tactful  person,  could  not  help  feeling  this,  and 
he  soon  turned  the  subject,  saying  carelessly:  '  But  one 
never  knows  how  much  to  believe  in  these  war  stories. 
Then  they  talked  of  things  nearer  home,  more  tangible 
things. 

"  I  like  those  big  red  and  white  cows.  ...  I  think 
they're  splendid  !  .  .  .  And  they  are  the  right  colours  for 
us,  red  and  white.  .  .  .  They  go  with  our  mountains  and 
our  green  pastures.  ..." 

"  Are  your  calves  coming  on  all  right,  Octave  ?" 

"  Oh  yes,  they're^getting  on  fine  !  .  .  .  I  don't  think  I 
shall  sell  them  before  the  autumn.  ..." 

And  their  eyes  wandered  critically  over  the  serried 
fields  of  clover,  lucerne,  wheat,  and  barley.  Presently 
some  men  went  for  a  stroll  to  look  at  the  crops 
more  closely,  and  Potterat,  too,  lit  a  cigar,  and  strolled 
off  by  himself.  The  wild  roses  climbing  over  the 
privet  hedge  held  out  their  blushing  faces  to  the  bees. 
Potterat  bathed  his  hands  in  a  little  brook,  singing  the 
while  snatches  of  Vaudois  songs.  He  felt  himself  a 
Vaudois  to  the  core,  here  in  the  heart  of  his  beloved 
country,  with  its  good  fruitful  earth,  its  spreading  trees, 
a  little  like  himself,  its  gently  sloping  hills,  unbroken  by 
sharp  peaks  or  bristling  rocks,  its  kindly  climate  and 
soft  air  ...  a  land  of  bushes  without  thorns,  of  vines,  of 
forests,  pasturages,  orchards,  and  everywhere,  glimmering 
through  the  trees,  the  soft  blue  of  the  sky,  and  the 
deeper  blue  of  the  Lake.  Up  in  the  clouds,  somewhere 
a  lark  was  carolling  .  .  .  happy  larks,  for  whom  heaven 
is  one  nest,  and  earth  another,  where  distant  bells  chime, 
where  the  sun's  rays  dance,  and  sweet  odours  rise. 

"  I'll  tell  you  what  it  is,  Potterat !"  he  said  to  him- 
self. ''You  talk  a  great  deal  too  much.  .  .  .  You've 
always  got  more  to  say  than  anyone  else,  .  .  .    Just  look 


278  POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR 

at  this  land  of  yours  !  .  .  .  It's  far  too  beautiful  to  be 
exposed  to  the  risk  of  invasion  !  .  .  .  It  was  made  to  be 
neutral !  .  .  .  They're  quite  right !  It's  better  to  hold 
one's  tongue  !  .  .  ." 

Presently  the  firing  was  resumed,  and  he  took  his  place 
again,  lying  full  length  this  time,  on  that  land  he  would 
not  for  worlds  expose  to  danger.  And  now  he  had  a 
more  difficult  task;  no  longer  had  he  in  front  of  him  the 
comfortable  square  target,  its  black  bull's-eye  standing 
well  out  against  a  background  of  white,  but  a  blue  splash 
which  represented  the  head  and  shoulders  of  a  soldier. 
Three  times  out  of  four  the  young  man  with  budding 
moustaches  has  touched  the  tiny  target.  .  .  .  Look  out, 
Potterat !  .  .  .  He  felt  himself  in  a  cold  sweat.  Wriggling 
about  on  his  stomach  to  get  lower  in  the  earth,  he  planted 
his  elbows  firmly  amongst  the  clods.  And  when  the 
syndic  maliciously  called  his  attention  to  a  magpie 
which  was  flying  across  the  sky  with  jerky  flaps  of  its 
striped  wings,  he  muttered,  "  Beast !"  .  .  .  and  closed 
his  eyes  not  to  see  the  magpie,  which  brings  bad  luck. 

"It's  your  turn,  M.  Potterat." 

He  brought  his  rifle  to  his  shoulder. 

"  After  all,  this  ball's  got  to  go  somewhere,  and  it 
might  just  as  well  go  into  that  little  man  as  anywhere 
else.  ...  Just  try  to  imagine  that  with  your  four  shots 
you  are  going  to  clear  Belgium  of  the  invaders,  to  restore 
their  cathedrals,  and  bring  back  their  brave  dead  !" 

"  Pan  !  .  .  .  flah  !  .  .  ."  once  more  comes  back  from  the 
woods :  the  markers  run  up.  .  .  .  Another  hit !  .  .  .  and 
another  !  .  .  .  and  the  last,  for  the  left  eye !  .  .  . 

Then  his  blood  begins  to  circulate  again,  his  features 
relax,  and  Potterat  gives  a  big  shout  of  laughter. 

"  There  you  are  !  .  .  .  I'm  afraid  of  nobody  when  I'm 
lying  flat  on  the  ground  with  a  gun  in  my  hand  !  .  .  .  If 
they  had  a  hundred  or  so  like  me  in  the  trenches  the  war 
would  be  finished  by  to-morrow  night.  ..." 


POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR  279 

"  You're  lucky  to  head  the  list  of  prize-winners." 

"  My  wife  will  be  pleased.  .  .  .  Women  don't  much  care 
for  old  men  who  can  do  nothing  but  wheeze.  .  .  .  There's 
nothing  like  coming  out  first  in  a  contest  to  revive  their 
love." 

The  chimneys  of  the  village  were  sending  up  trails  of 
smoke  as  they  came  back  in  the  evening  in  time  to  bring 
in  the  cows.  People  appeared  at  the  doors  of  the  houses, 
and  called  out: 

"  WTho's  won  first  prize  ?  .  .  ." 

Soon  the  news  was  all  over  the  village,  and  when 
Potterat  appeared  the  children  danced  round  him,  hold- 
ing each  others'  hands,  and  singing : 

"  When  the  king  of  the  range  went  by, 
Ho !  ho  !  ho  !  'neath  his  canopy, 
Gaily  I  lifted  my  bright  black  eyes, 
To  greet  the  marksman  who'd  won  the  prize." 

Until  supper  was  ready,  Potterat  strolled  about,  his 
chest  well  out.  He  wandered  along  the  little  paths 
between  the  hedges,  and  presently  met  some  young  girls, 
with  arms  intertwined,  humming: 

"  To  love  is  not  a  crime, 
God  does  not  forbid  it !  .  .  ." 

"  You  have  very  pretty  voices,  young  ladies.  ..." 

They  blushed  and  giggled.  They  wore  their  white 
Sunday  fichus,  their  cheeks  were  glowing  with  health, 
their  hair  was  neatly  braided,  and  their  lissom  figures 
were  alluring. 

"  Are  you  the  king  of  the  range  ?  .  .  ."  said  one  of 
them.  "  Oh,  that's  too  bad  of  you  !  My  fiance  was 
hoping  so  much.  ..." 

"  Who  is  he  ?  .  .  .  Oh,  the  young  man  with  the  curly 
hair  ?  .  .  .  Well,  he'll  win  next  year.  And  these  other 
young  ladies?  .  .  .  Where  are  your  young  men?  .  .  ." 

"  At  the  war." 

"  At  the  war  ?  .  .  .   Not  really  at  war  ?" 


280  POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR 

"  Oh,  it's  just  as  bad  !  .  .  .  They're  away  for  so  long  !" 
"  Be  patient.  They'll  come  back  one  of  these  fine 
days  soon.  And  then  you'll  be  able  to  sing  duets  again. 
On  the  other  side  of  the  Jura  it's  very  different.  There 
they  are  at  war,  if  you  like  !  .  .  .  Yes,  we  ought  to  be 
very  thankful  that  we  are  spared  ..."  and  Potterat 
looked  at  the  peaceful  scene  before  him,  the  smoke 
curling  lazily  upwards,  the  heavy  ears  of  corn,  the  distant 
ridge  of  hills,  carrying  the  eye  on  to  the  Alps,  towering 
in  the  distance,  and  said,  '  We  are  spared  much  !'  .  .  . 

Half-past  seven  !    The  children  in  crowds,  with  their 
hands  behind  their  backs,  and  their  mouths  open,  round- 
eyed,  stared  at  the  band,  which  was  playing  a  lively 
air.     It  was  exciting  .  .  .  even  some  belated  cows  going 
back  from  the  drinking-trough,  gambolled  as  if  dancing 
to  the  music,  .  .  .  and  everybody  laughed.     Then  the 
voice  of  the  President  of  the  Rifle  Club  was  heard.     He 
spoke  of  Potterat,  who  stood  to  attention  in  his  best 
manner,  admired  by  all  the  women.     He  then  placed 
the  laurel  crown  on  Potterat's  head,  and  presented  him 
with  a  coffee-pot.     Next,  the  young  man  also  received 
a   laurel   crown,    and   a    cheese-grater.     The  President 
spoke   of   the  troublous  times  in  which  we  are  living; 
he    too,  like    all   the  rest,   was  ready  to    '  protect  the 
frontiers,'  etc.     Then  the  band  struck  up  another  lively 
air  and  marched  at  the  head  of  the  procession  to  the 
Inn,  while    the   rest  of  the  crowd  looked  on;  old  men 
leaning  on  their  sticks,  their  sons  with  grizzled  beards, 
grandsons  with  black  moustaches,  great-grandsons  sit- 
ting on  the  ground  beside  the  cats,  and  grandmothers, 
mothers,  young    maidens.      It   was    a    pleasant    scene. 
The    merry  tunes    of    the    band    swept    through    this 
peaceful  well-being,    bringing  to    every  heart  a   vague 
sense  of  fuller  life,  a  desire  for  adventure.  .  .  .     Those 
sonorous  brass  instruments,  the  rhythmic  sound  of  the 
marching  feet,  the  swinging  arms,  the  flag,  the  'King  of 


POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR  281 

the  Range  '  with  his  laurel  crown.  .  .  .  There  !  .  .  .  they 
had  all  disappeared  into  the  Inn,  and  the  old  men  sat 
down  again  on  their  sun-warmed  benches,  amidst  the 
flower-pots.  .  .  .  The  tinkle  of  the  fountain  was  again 
distinctly  heard.  .  .  .  Through  the  open  windows  of  the 
Inn,  they  could  be  seen,  as  they  took  their  places  round 
the  table  in  the  big  dining-room,  hung  with  fly-blown 
portraits.  Two  serving-maids  were  carrying  in  huge 
smoking  dishes.     Someone  said: 

"  Is  this  some  of  Marc's  veal  ?" 

Another  voice  was  heard: 

"  For  my  part,  I  don't  think  it  ever  pays  to  go  against 
the  orders  of  the  authorities.  It's  unreasonable  to 
criticize  the  people  at  the  head  of  the  Government.  ..." 

The  voices  buzzed  on;  they  drank  healths,  clinking 
their  glasses  against  each  other;  the  voices  grew  louder; 
cigars  were  lit;  and  presently  Potterat,  asked  for  a  speech, 
was  on  his  feet,  his  chest  well  thrown  out.  From  outside, 
of  course,  all  he  said  could  not  be  heard.  But  he  began 
by  saying  that  he  was  delighted  to  be  once  more  in  the 
midst  of  real  old  Vaudois  folk,  who  love  their  country 
and  are  part  of  it;  who  produce,  while  others  destroy. 
In  the  towns,  he  went  on,  people  are  excited,  they  read 
too  many  newspapers,  they  lose  their  heads.  ...  To 
listen  to  each  of  the  belligerents,  one  would  think  that 
they  all  were  right,  and  that  God  marched  under  the 
banner  of  each.  "  Now  we  have  the  privilege,"  he  went  on, 
"  of  looking  on  at  the  conflict  from  outside.  .  .  .  This  day 
has  done  me  good.  It  has  plunged  me,  as  it  were,  right 
into  the  heart  of  Nature.  And  Nature  is  neutral.  .  .  . 
Our  Government  knows  it  well.  As  somebody  truly  said 
just  now,  '  It  is  dangerous  to  think  we  know  better  than 
the  authorities,  those  at  the  top.'  There  have  been 
times,  I  confess,  when  I  have  allowed  myself  to  criti- 
cize. .  .  .  But  I  was  wrong.  .  .  .  Since  I  have  been 
here  with  you  all,  you  who  are  the  backbone  of  the 


282  POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR 

race,  its  very  soul,  if  I  may  say  so,  you,  so  moderate 
and  calm  in  your  judgment  of  events,  I  have  felt  that 
your  way  was  the  wisest,  the  best,  the  only  one,  in  fact, 
for  a  wise  man  to  follow.  ...  So  I  give  you  as  a  toast: 
The  peaceful  fields,  and  those  who  cultivate  them  !  All 
honour  to  them  !  .  .  ." 

Was  it  really  Potterat  who  spoke  these  words  ?  .  .  . 
It  was.  The  spirit  of  the  place  had  taken  possession  of 
him.  How  could  he  speak  otherwise  when  he  was  smoking 
such  fragrant  cigars,  drinking  such  excellent  wine,  and 
when  through  the  windows  came  the  scent  of  new- mown 
hay,  and  the  rustle  of  the  lime-trees  in  the  evening 
breeze  ?  .  .  .  They  applauded  him  loudly.  The  band 
played  the  Cantonal  March.  Then  they  sang  the  Vaudois 
song,  ■  A  new  day  rises,  men  of  Vaud  !'  .  .  .  At  last  the 
ceremony  was  over.  On  the  market-place,  Madame 
Noverraz  joined  Potterat. 

"  Would  you  mind  taking  back  a  parcel  for  me  ?  It 
is  some  clothes  for  the  refugees.  Here  we  have  no  chance 
of  seeing  them.  .  .  .  There  are  two  dresses,  a  cloak,  some 
stockings,  and  a  dozen  handkerchiefs.  .  .  .  What  you 
told  us  to-day  at  dinner  touched  me  so  much.  ..." 

Potterat  took  the  parcel,  and  as  he  did  so,  he  thought : 

"  Good  Heavens !  I  excite  them,  and  they  calm 
me  !  .  .  ." 

Soon  he  was  on  his  way  back  to  the  station,  the  parcel 
under  one  arm,  his  prize  under  the  other,  his  rifle  on  his 
shoulder,  and  the  laurel  crown  still  round  his  hat.  The 
sky  was  full  of  stars;  the  earth  dim,  and  wrapped  in  dark- 
ness; but  up  there,  the  mysterious  fields  of  space,  the 
Milky  Way,  like  a  scarf,  thickly  powdered  with  worlds, 
and  stretching  away  to  infinity.  ...  It  made  Potterat 
thoughtful. 

"So  many  stars  up  there,  and  down  here  so  many  men 
burrowing  like  moles  amongst  the  beetroots  !  .  .  .  You 
weren't  very  brave  to-night,  old  boy  !  .  .  .    Ah  well,  one 


POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR  283 

can't  spend  one's  whole  life  shaking  one's  fist.  But  I 
haven't  altered  my  opinions  a  bit.  .  .  .  I  think  just 
the  same  as  I've  done  all  the  year.  .  .  .  We're  quiet,  peace- 
able folk,  after  all,  ...  we  can't  be  heroes  all  the  time. 
.  .  .  We  must  eat,  and  drink,  and  sleep,  ...  as  a  matter 
of  fact  an  intelligent  man  has  to  adapt  himself  to  his 
audience.  The  country  is  country  .  .  .  and  the  town 
is  town.  .  .  .  What  can  one  do  ?  .  .  .  Besides  .  .  .  there 
are  days  when  one  feels  neutral.  ..." 

Just  then  a  shooting  star  sped  across  the  heavens. 
Potterat  waved  his  hand  to  it.     "  Bon  voyage  !"  he  said. 

It  was  July.  Plucking  up  courage,  the  cafe  near  the 
flats  set  its  gramophone  going  once  more  in  its  gardens; 
the  little  arbours  were  filled  with  drinkers.  Compelled 
by  the  hardness  of  times  to  give  up  their  usual  abode, 
gaily-dressed  damsels  were  walking  about,  making  eyes 
even  at  staid  fathers  of  families.  .  .  . 

Retrenchment,  for  some,  soon  developed  into  positive 
poverty.  A  widow,  who  had  a  flat  on  the  fourth  floor, 
and  took  three  boarders,  had  now  lost  them.  She  fell  ill, 
and  one  could  see  her  son,  in  his  student's  cap,  washing 
up  dishes.  No  more  pupils  came  to  the  music-teacher 
on  the  second  floor,  there  were  no  more  scales.  Some- 
times a  short  piece  was  played,  but  without  spirit.  .  .  . 
Potterat  would  shake  his  head  at  the  sound  of  these 
melancholy  notes.  .  .  .  One  morning,  the  postman  left 
a  fifty-franc  note  at  the  flat  on  the  fourth  floor, 
and  another  fifty-franc  note  at  the  second-floor  flat.  .  .  . 
From  whom  ?  .  .  .  The  widow  thanked  God ;  the  pianist 
jumped  over  the  music-stool.  That  same  morning,  as 
Potterat  watered  his  plants,  he  whistled  loudly  some 
martial  airs.     Suddenly  he  stopped  short : 

"  What  in  the  world  are  you  whistling  ?"  he  said  to 
himself.  "  '  Sambre  et  Meuse,'  an  air  forbidden  by  the 
military  authorities  !  .  .  .    Do  take  care  !  .  .  .    My  word  ! 


284  POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR 

One  is  dazed  by  all  these  prohibitions  and  regula- 
tions. .  .  .  One  would  think  we  were  boys,  or  fools, 
without  any  brains  or  common  sense.  And  we  are 
beginning  to  be  perpetually  watched,  and  advised,  and 
threatened,  and  lectured.  .  .  .  By-and-by  we  shan't  be 
able  to  put  our  noses  outside  the  door  without  permission. 
The  absolute  last  word  in  neutrality  !  .  .  .  '  Show  the 
cream,  and  hide  the  pepper  !'  That's  the  idea  !  .  .  . 
And  we  must  mind  and  be  very  polite  to  everybody  !  .  .  . 
We  must  learn  to  salute  consuls  and  ambassadors  !  .  .  ." 

Potterat,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  although  it  did  not  affect 
him  in  the  least  personally,  had  regarded  the  Censorship 
from  the  first  with  a  deadly  hatred.  The  very  word 
infuriated  him.  All  his  traditions,  as  a  good  Republican, 
were  in  favour  of  that  liberty  which  poets  had  sung  in 
many  songs  which  he  knew  by  heart.  It  was  with  him 
an  article  of  faith  as  much  as  his  religion.  And  now  this 
forbidding  of  a  public  lecture  announced  by  the  Belgian, 
Destree,  another  lecture  on '  The  Martyred  Towns. ' . .  .  An 
alarming  title,  they  said,  subversive  !  .  .  .  Then  Vachon, 
the  gentle  old  artist,  with  his  white  beard,  had  been 
ordered,  at  Berne,  to  take  his  limelight  views  apparatus 
to  pieces,  and  to  leave  the  town,  he  and  his  flowing 
necktie,  until  people  had  come  to  their  senses  again. 
Forbidden,  too,  in  many  other  Cantons,  was  the  lecture 
given  by  a  Swiss  who  had  been  present  at  the  sack  of 
Louvain. 

Now  this  lecture  had  been  given  first  at  Lausanne,  and 
Potterat  had  heard  it,  and  had  been  moved  to  tears.  .  .  . 
And  continually  books  were  being  seized,  pamphlets, 
postcards  with  the  Proclamation  of  General  J  off  re  to  the 
Alsatians.  .  .  .  Who  were  they  afraid  of  ?  .  .  .  Potterat 
indignantly  unbosomed  himself  to  Delessert. 

"  What  do  you  think  of  all  this  nonsense  ?" 

"  Oh,  I  don't  think  !  I  do  as  I'm  told  !  .  .  .  In  the 
beginning,  when  I  had  to  watch  the  bookshops,  and 


POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR  285 

confiscate  the  pictures  of  Reims  Cathedral,  it  used  to 
annoy  me.  But  now  I  don't  care  a  straw.  I  have  my 
orders,  and  I  obey  them.  If  the  Censorship  gave  me 
orders  to  confiscate  the  Bible,  I  would  go  right  into  the 
pastors'  houses.  ..." 

This  word  '  orders  '  rather  pulled  Potterat  up  short  ; 
the  word  so  much  respected,  so  often  repeated,  so  wil- 
lingly obeyed.  Orders  !  Even  on  hearing  the  word,  he 
had  involuntarily  drawn  himself  up,  thrown  out  his  chest, 
and  clicked  his  heels  together,  mentally,  so  to  speak.  .  .  . 
Was  it  possible  that  he,  Potterat,  brought  up  in  the 
tradition  of  obedience  to  orders,  was  now  going  to  rebel 
against  them  ?  .  .  .  Had  he  not  already  done  so  in 
showing  so  plainly,  through  all  these  long  months,  his 
thoughts  and  feelings,  his  revolt,  as  an  honest  man, 
against  neutrality,  without  stopping  to  consider  what 
effect  his  attitude  might  possibly  have  ?  .  .  .  The 
authorities — the  Authorities,  mark  you,  Potterat ! — had 
called  for  Silence  !  Attention  !  Chut !  Sh-sh.  Lower, 
not  so  loud  !  .  .  .  Not  that :  something  else  !  .  .  .  and  he, 
Potterat,  had  jeered,  criticized,  rebelled  openly,  and 
cursed  those  who  had  broken  their  word.  ...  He  realized 
suddenly  the  gravity  of  his  fault. 

"  And  what  good  does  it  do  ?"  he  asked  himself, 
u  these  bursts  of  valour  ?  .  .  .  Not  a  bit !  No,  at  Bioley 
you  were  much  more  sensible ;  you  took  the  right  tone,  and 
they  applauded  you.  Wasn't  it  Abraham  who  said,  '  Am 
I  my  brother's  keeper  ?'  .  .  .  We  can't  police  the  whole 
of  Europe  !  .  .  .  M.  Hoffmann  explained  that  to  us  the 
other  day:  the  private  citizen  has  to  adopt  the  opinion 
of  his  Government.  How  do  you  think  things  would  go 
on  otherwise  ?  Switzerland  is  neutral  by  treaty,  so  the 
Swiss  citizen  must  be  neutral.  He  must  neither  blame, 
nor  praise.  Even  if  all  the  rest  of  the  world,  except  our- 
selves, is  violated,  we  must  remain  neutral.  .  .  .  That's 
how  we  must  think  of  our  duty.     And  if  it  seems  strange 


286  POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR 

to  you,  it's  because  you  are  not  truly  Swiss.  If  you  are 
really  Swiss,  then  you  must  not  think  it  strange.  Yes, 
my  boy,  you  are  getting  into  bad  habits.  .  .  .  You  argue, 
you  think  things  out  for  yourself.  ...  You  are  a  free 
lance.  .  .  .  You  must  change.  .  .  .  You  must  come  to 
heel.  .  .  .   Mum's  the  word.  ..." 

"  Father,  let's  have  something  on  the  gramophone  ? 
*  Sambre  et  Meuse  '?..." 

"  You  young  anarchist !  .  .  .  Don't  you  know  that  that 
is  forbidden  to  military  bands  ?" 

"  It's  forbidden  outside,  but  not  at  home.  Besides, 
a  gramophone  isn't  a  military  band  !" 

"  H'm  !     Well,  perhaps  you're  right." 

"  David  !  Don't  listen  to  the  boy  !  Don't  do  it  ! 
Sooner  or  later,  you  know,  they'll  stop  your  pension  if 
you  go  on  like  this  !  .  .  ." 

"  Right  you  are  !  We'll  play  nothing  then.  .  .  .  Blest 
if  I  can  understand  things  here  a  bit !  In  Holland  they 
have  no  Censorship;  nor  have  they  in  Denmark.  Only 
ourselves.  The  other  day,  at  Fribourg,  a  policeman 
snatched  a  toy  Swiss  flag  from  a  child,  because  the 
1  carrying  of  emblems  '  is  forbidden  in  the  precincts  of 
the  railway-station.  They  began  by  being  afraid  of 
other  people,  now  they  are  afraid  of  us.  But  there 
I  am  again,  criticizing  as  usual !  .  .  .  I  withdraw  all  I 
said,  and  all  I  was  going  to  say.  In  the  end,  I  expect 
they're  right.  .  .  .  That  doesn't  hinder  me  from  thinking, 
all  the  same,  that  all  they  have  done  to  make  good 
little  performing  dogs  of  us  has  been  retrograde.  .  .  . 
Little  presents  in  time  of  peace,  little  frowns  in  time 
of  war,  a  mixture  of  both,  alliance  by  marriage,  in- 
vestments and  withdrawing  of  investments,  gold  chains. 
.  .  .  Oh,  I've  seen  it  all  coming.  .  .  .  There  was  too 
much  lace  about.  .  .  .  Damn  it  all !  Here  I  am,  be- 
ginning again  !  .  .  .  Now  what  is  the  use  of  exciting 
myself,  and  worrying  myself  into  a  fever  ?  .  .  .   We've 


POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR  287 

done  our  duty.  We've  had  some  Belgians,  and  you 
knit  .  .  .  and  if  they  tell  us  to  be  quiet  and  say  nothing, 
well,  that's  all  right !  .  .  .  Let's  stop  sitting  in  judgment 
on  the  world,  and  quietly  read  our  newspapers:  '  Marc 
Bassin,  farmer  of  Granges,  victim  of  a  recent  accident, 
thanks  most  warmly  the  charitable  friends  who  lent  a 
helping  hand  in  ploughing  his  land,  sowing  it,  cutting 
wood,  and  many  other  kind  acts  of  sympathy.'  " 

"  Aren't  our  own  people  good  ?  ..." 

"  Only  too  good !  .  .  .  One  reads  constantly  of  in- 
stances like  this.  Here  again,  just  listen:  '  Strayed,  about 
a  month  ago,  a  Griffon  dog  (female),  wearing  a  collar, 
with  the  name  and  address  of  the  owner.  As  the  animal 
was  enceinte,  its  owner  was  advised  to  wait,  as  the  dog 
would  probably  return  with  its  puppies.  But  taking 
into  account  its  fidelity,  as  it  has  not  turned  up,  the 
undersigned  has  lost  all  hope  of  this,  and  begs  those 
who  may  have  taken  it  in  to  give  her  news  of  it,  dead 
or  alive. — Mdlle.  Muller,  Chemin  des  Jumelles.'  She's 
quite  right,  by  Jove  !  to  go  into  mourning  for  her  dog. 
But  why  should  I  go  into  mourning  for  the  rest  of  the 
world  ?  It  only  gets  one  into  trouble,  and  doesn't  do 
the  slightest  good.     I'm  going  to  change  my  ways." 

Delessert,  his  friend  and  successor,  consulted  again, 
fortified  Potterat  in  this  decision.  When  Potterat  asked 
him: 

"  And  this  Censorship  ?  .  .  .  It  gives  you  plenty  of 
running  about,  doesn't  it  ?"  the  sergeant  replied: 

"  Oh  yes,  of  course,  I've  a  good  deal  of  running  about 
to  do,  but  I'm  paid  for  that.  ...  If  everybody  com- 
manded, nothing  would  be  done.  .  .  .  It's  not  for  people 
in  our  position,  and  with  our  pay,  to  put  our  little  sticks 
between  the  spokes  of  the  big  men's  wheels  !  .  .  .  And 
it's  war-time,  after  all,  you  know.  To  make  one's  living, 
one  has  to  stand  well  with  all  foreigners.  It  isn't  you 
and  me  that  will  keep  the  big  hotels  going  after  the  war. 


288  POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR 

Of  course  we  sympathize  with  the  Belgians;  only,  if  one 
says  so,  it  offends  the  others,  and  those  others  are  strong. 
Sensibly  enough,  we're  inviting  those  who  have  a  ready 
tongue  and  pen  to  shut  off  the  steam.  .  .  .  You'll  see 
that  no  more  people  will  go  singing  all  over  the  place 
'  Liberte  cherie,  seul  bien  de  ma  vie  '  .  .  .  but  ordinary 
songs  like  •  Amour,  que  veux-tu  de  moi  ? '  and  that 
sort  of  thing.  .  .  .  it's  more  neutral.  .  .  .  Oh,  you 
have  to  manage  things  in  this  world.  When  one  plank 
gives  way,  you  seize  another,  hey  ?  .  .  .  Look  here, 
Potterat,  to  go  into  opposition  will  only  bring  you  dis- 
appointment and  bad  luck.  .  .  .  People  like  ourselves 
can't  afford  to  be  in  the  minority.  ..." 

"  You  take  life  in  the  right  way,  hey  ?  .  .  .  You  know 
how  to  get  along  !" 

"  You  bet !  .  .  .  I'm  all  right.  I'm  neutral.  Orders, 
counter-orders.  ...  I  carry  them  all  out  as  I'm  told. 
After  all,  it's  a  bit  harder  to  govern  a  nation  than  to 
milk  a  goat.  ..." 

['  My  word,  I  shouldn't  wonder  but  you're  right !" 

There  are  times  when  it  takes  very  little  to  change  a 
man's  mind.  Potterat  had  never  concealed  his  tastes: 
he  loved  good  food,  sunny  days,  pleasant  thoughts,  to 
feel  himself  on  good  terms  with  everybody,  and  above 
all,  to  stand  well  with  the  authorities.  He  had  been 
thoroughly  miserable  for  months  past.  And  what  had 
been  the  good  of  it  all  ?  .  .  .  He  might  just  as  well 
go  back  to  his  former  happy  state  of  mind.  As  he 
went  along  to  see  Bigarreau,  he  thought  that  he  had 
never  seen  the  sloping  fields  looking  more  beautiful,  nor 
such  an  exquisite  light  on  the  pale-blue  waters  of  the 
Lake.  He  gazed  with  intense  pleasure  on  the  grass,  the 
lilies,  the  foxgloves,  roses,  and  the  fruit-trees.  Amongst 
all  these  Potterat  became  himself  again,  jovial,  easy- 
going. He  leaned  over  the  flowers  to  smell  their  fragrance, 
he  tasted  the  plums  and  apricots.  .  .  .  They  brought  some 


POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR  289 

baskets  and  picked  fruit.  ...  "  It's  better  to  hear  ripe 
apricots  falling  than  shells  !  ...  We  haven't  been 
very  heroic,  but  we  have  been  spared  !  .  .  .  Ruin  and 
devastation  !  One  would  think  twice,  ay,  sixty  times, 
before  provoking  that  sort  of  thing.  ...  I,  who  was  so 
strong  on  protesting  last  year,  I  begin  to  think  better  of 
it.  .  .  .  Everyone  for  himself !  That's  the  law  of  the 
world  !" 

Bigarreau  fixed  astonished  eyes  on  his  friend.  Then 
he  said: 

'  Well,  it's  the  way  to  be  comfortable  .  .  .  not  to  men- 
tion that  we  give  clothes,  and  take  in  refugees  !" 

Up  in  the  cloudless  blue  sky,  stretched  like  a  cloth 
with  its  corners  resting  on  the  mountain-peaks,  a  red- 
brown  hawk  was  hovering. 

'  What  do  you  want  ?  .  .  .  It's  no  use  your  coming 
down  here,  we're  too  big  for  you.  ..." 

Later,  as  he  sat  in  his  own  home,  with  an  apron  round 
his  waist,  stoning  the  apricots  for  jam,  while  the  syrup 
simmered  in  the  big  pan  on  the  lire,  he  said : 

"  How  fine  these  apricots  are !  They're  like  little 
suns.     Oh,  we  have  a  fertile  country  !" 

'  Why  do  you  keep  saying  that  sort  of  thing  all  the 
time  ?  .  .  ."  asked  Carlo. 

"  Because  I  love  it  !  .  .  .  If  you  saw  faults  or  defects 
in  your  parents  it  would  make  you  sad,  wouldn't  it  ?  .  .  . 
But  all  that  is  past  and  gone.  .  .  .  Everything's  all  right 
now." 

"  At  school,  they're  always  telling  us  that  we  must 
be  patriotic.,, 

'  They  teach  you  that  ?  .  .  .  That's  a  pity.  Patriotism, 
like  love,  is  not  to  be  taught;  it  comes  naturally/' 

Sitting  in  his  little  garden,  Potterat  congratulated 
himself  on  his  new  attitude. 

"I'm  too  excitable,  that's  what  it  is.  The  least  thing 
carries  me  away.  .  .  .     And  what  good  is  it  to  be  too 

19 


2Q0  POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR 

generous  ?  .  .  .  One's  only  taken  advantage  of.  .  .  .  No, 
it's  all  very  well  to  get  hot  about  things  in  winter,  or 
even  in  spring,  but  in  summer  it  makes  one  ill." 

The  honeysuckle  that  had  been  brought  from  Eglantine 
Cottage  to  No.  5,  Avenue  des  Roses  was  in  blossom, 
climbing  side  by  side  with  the  beans,  trained  on  high 
sticks  planted  in  the  borders. 

'  They'll  always  come  in  for  soup,"  he  said,  "  not  to 
mention  that  they  wouldn't  make  at  all  bad  cover  if  one 
had  to  fire  from  behind  them.  .  .  .  Bother  !  I've  got  this 
war  on  the  brain  !  .  .  .  Oh,  I  wash  my  hands  of  all  these 
worries.  ...  I'm  not  responsible,  and  I'm  not  going  to 
care  !  If  I  had  got  my  marching  orders,  clearly  and 
definitely,  wouldn't  I  just  have  gone  like  a  shot.  .  .  . 
They  would  have  talked  about  me.  .  .  .  Liberty  and 
country  !  .  .  .  They  would  have  given  me  a  commission 
before  long  for  the  things  I  would  have  done.  .  .  .  But 
I  wasn't  asked  to  go.  Other  nations  are  fighting,  and, 
after  all,  it's  their  business.  What  would  be  the  use  of 
protesting  ?  .  .  .  The  only  result  would  be  that  we  should 
be  gobbled  up  in  our  turn.  ...  To  protest !  .  .  .  You 
only  see  that  sort  of  thing  in  a  play.  We  don't  do  these 
heroic  things  nowadays.  .  .  .  We  look  after  the  cash- 
boxes  now:  that's  the  most  important  thing.  .  .  .  Pride 
is  out  of  date,  it's  a  relic  of  the  Middle  Ages.  .  .  .  Besides, 
people  know  very  well  which  side  our  sympathies  are  on. 
And  we're  hospitable.  We  may  not  lift  a  finger  or  say  a 
word  when  all  these  atrocities  are  committed,  but  at  any 
rate  we  try  to  bind  up  their  wounds  as  well  as  we  can. 
Oh,  we're  not  half  bad,  after  all !  .  .  .  It  was  Cremet 
who  made  me  feel  so  indignant.  He  was  so  grand,  so 
defiant,  that  old  man.  .  .  .  Ah,  bah  !  Let  the  Belgians 
look  after  themselves  !  .  .  .  I'm  Swiss,  and  I'm  here,  and 
all  our  monuments  are  untouched  as  yet.  .  .  .  And  I've 
served  the  Government  for  over  thirty  years;  it  would 
be  a  pretty  business  if  I  became  disaffected  now.  .  .  . 


POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR  291 

^nd  haven't  we  had  compliments  in  foreign  newspapers 
for  all  the  good  we've  done  ?  What  do  we  want  more  ? 
.  .  .  Since  when  is  it  a  good  thing  for  people  of  no  im- 
portance to  lift  up  their  voices  ?  .  .  .  We  are  men,  after 
all,  and  good  men  too,  when  we  look  into  the  matter. ..." 

Such  were  the  reflections  that  the  summer  sunshine 
brought  to  Potterat's  mind.  On  Sundays  they  went 
up  to  Sauvabelin,  and  strolled  about  on  the  Terrace 
there,  admiring  the  wonderful  view.  Everything  was 
so  fresh  and  beautiful  that  Potterat  ceased  listening 
for  the  sound  of  guns  beyond  the  distant  hills.  As  they 
walked  through  the  woods  his  wife  discoursed  on  the 
blessings  of  peace,  denounced  the  nations  who  were  at 
war  as  un-Christian,  and  pointed  out  that  even  if  they 
were  not  all  equally  guilty,  the  horrors  and  miseries  that 
war  brings  in  its  train  are  so  awful  that  it  is  enough  to 
make  one's  blood  run  cold  only  to  think  of  them. 

Soothing  words,  which  were  in  harmony  with  the 
sweetness  of  the  summer  air,  with  the  beauty  of  the 
distant  panorama.  Some  families  had  been  dining  under 
the  trees ;  while  the  children  danced  in  a  ring,  the  mother 
replaced  the  glasses  in  the  basket,  and  the  father  lay  flat 
on  the  grass,  sleeping,  his  hat  over  his  face  to  shade  him 
from  the  sun,  his  moustache  still  white  with  the  cream 
brought  by  the  youngsters  from  a  neighbouring  farm. 
Potterat  taught  Carlo  how  to  make  a  whistle  from  an 
elder-branch,  and  a  flute  from  a  hemlock  stem.  Sud- 
denly he  said : 

"  Do  you  see  that  boy  over  there  with  the  College  cap  ? 
.  ,  .  He  is  just  about  your  age.  In  four  months  more, 
when  the  schools  open  again  after  the  summer  holidays, 
you  will  be  going  to  College  too.  How  will  you  like  to 
be  learning  Latin  ?" 

**  Not  at  all !  Those  old  languages  are  no  use  nowa- 
days !" 

"  That's  where  you're  wrong.     They  are  not  spoken 


292  POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR 

any  more,  certainly,  but  they  are  very  useful,  all  the 
same.  Don't  you  think  that  I  should  have  been  something 
better  than  a  police-inspector  if  I  had  only  known  the 
dead  languages  ?  .  .  .  With  my  abilities,  I  should  have 
risen  to  a  very  high  position,  and  perhaps  been  one  of 
the  bigwigs,  a  syndic,  or  a  Commissioner  of  Police.  .  .  . 
One  has  to  conform  to  convention,  and  fall  in  with  the 
manners  and  customs  of  those  round  you  if  you  want 
to  succeed.  So  you  will  study  hard,  Carlo.  We  are  very 
proud  of  you,  your  mother  and  I.  I  hope  you  won't 
disappoint  us." 

M  Oh  yes,  Carlo,  you  must  study  well,"  put  in  his 
mother. 

"  No,  I  won't !  .  .  .    I  don't  want  to  study  !" 
'  You'll  obey  your  mother,  sir  !     You  have  only  one 
mother  !  .  .  .    Are  you  going  to  study,  yes  or  no  ?  .  .  ." 
thundered  Potterat. 
"  Oh,  well  .  .  .  yes." 
"  I  should  think  so  !" 

At  the  setting  of  the  sun,  they  turned  homewards, 
arm  in  arm.  The  paths,  overhung  with  tall  trees,  were 
bathed  in  soft  green  light.  Before  them  other  people 
were  strolling  along,  some  couples,  fat,  tired  mothers, 
and  young  girls  in  white  shoes  and  lace-trimmed 
skirts. 

Next  day,  they  resumed  the  jam-making.  No  one 
knew  what  the  winter  might  hold  for  them.  .  .  .  They 
couldn't  have  too  much.  Potterat  took  a  hand  of  course. 
He  read  out  receipts,  and  gave  advice.  Presently  a  dis- 
pute arose :  he  wanted  to  make  a  preserve  of  raw  currants, 
his  wife  vaunted  the  superior  quality  of  cooked  jelly. 

"  Bigarreau  gave  me  some  of  their  raw  currant  jelly 
to  taste  the  other  day,  and  it  was  just  like  fresh  fruit. 
.  .  .  All  right  then,  make  a  pot  of  each  !  .  .  ." 

Kneeling  on  the  floor,  he  strained  the  juice  from  the 
fruit,    poured    it    into    a    jar,    added    the    sugar,    and 


POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR  293 

stirred  the  mixture  carefully  with  a  long-handled  wooden 
spoon.     Madame  Potterat  laughed. 

"If  only  people  could  see  you,  David,  with  your 
waxed  moustache,  and  your  military  look,  your  big 
chest,  and  your  woman's  apron,  and  your  ringers  sticky 
with  sugar  !  .  .  ." 

''  Well,  they  didn't  want  me  to  be  a  hero,  so  I  may  as 
well  be  a  cook.  .  .  .  And  perhaps  we  can  give  some  of 
this  jam  to  the  refugees  when  they  are  going  back  to 
their  own  country.  ...  It  will  be  a  help  to  them.  .  .  . 
There  !  You  see  how  it's  stiffening  up  already.  ...  It 
gets  almost  as  firm  as  ice  in  a  little  while.  I'm  glad  it's 
going  well.  .  .  .   And  bother  the  war  !  .  .  ." 


CHAPTER  XIII 

On  the  evening  of  the  ioth  July,  Potterat  ran  down  the 
staircase  in  his  slippers  to  his  letter-box,  ranged — in  a 
row  with  eleven  others — along  the  wall  in  the  entrance 
hall.  He  took  out  the  Feuille  d'  Avis  and  remounted  the 
stairs.  Settling  himself  in  the  depths  of  a  big  red  arm- 
chair, drawn  up  near  the  window,  he  read  the  burial 
notices,  the  telegrams,  very  uninteresting  that  evening, 
and  various  items  of  local  news.  Suddenly  a  headline 
caught  his  eye:  '  Report  of  the  Belgian  Commission  of 
Inquiry.'  ...  He  read  a  few  lines,  then  gave  an  angry 
shout. 

"  The  devil !  .  .  .  Francoise,  put  down  your  knitting- 
needles  for  a  moment,  and  listen  to  this.  It  makes  one's 
blood  run  cold.  ...  How  they  could !  .  .  .  How  they 
could  !  .  .  .  In  the  twentieth  century  !  My  God  !  It's 
terrible  !  .  .  .  And  against  peaceful,  inoffensive  people  .  .  . 
people  like  ourselves,  who  thought  they  could  sleep  in 
peace  in  the  security  of  their  treaties  !  .  .  .  Damn  !  I'm 
no  longer  neutral.  ...  I  can't  be  neutral  in  the  face  of 
things  like  this  !  .  .  .  '  The  village  of  Battice  was  pillaged 
and  burnt  on  the  6th  August,  1914.  Thirty-five  persons 
were  massacred.'  .  .  .  '  Bouxhe-Melen  counts  more  than 
eighty  victims.'  '  At  Nicheroux  the  church  and  the 
Communal  Schools  were  destroyed.  The  population, 
their  hands  bound,  were  shut  up  in  the  church  of  Fleches- 
Soumagne.'  ...  'At  Berneau,  nine  persons  were  mas- 
sacred, and  out  of  one  hundred  and  fifteen  houses,  only 
forty-three  are  standing.'  .  .  .  !  With  the  exception  of  a 
few  houses,  the  whole  of  Barchon  was  burnt,  and  twenty- 

294 


POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR  295 

seven  persons,  including  women  and  children,  massacred.' 
'  At  Trembleur,  the  hamlet  of  Blegny  was  completely 
destroyed,  and  a  great  number  of  the  inhabitants  put  to 
death.  The  Abbe  Labaye  and  the  Burgomaster  of  the 
village  were  shot  before  the  church,  which  was  then 
burnt.'  ...  '  Foret,  Olne,  and  Soiron  are  amongst  the 
most  cruelly  treated  villages.  They  are  in  ruins,  and 
many  of  their  inhabitants  were  shot.'  '  At  Lizse,  Rom- 
broek,  a  farmer,  was  shot,  with  his  son  and  servant -man.' 
'  At  Haccourt,  Colson's  farm  was  set  on  fire,  the  farmer, 
his  son,  and  his  daughter-in-law  being  shut  up  in  the 
farm,  and  burnt  alive.  The  cure  of  the  parish,  M. 
l'Abbe  Thielen,  was  killed.  Sixteen  persons  altogether, 
of  whom  many  were  women,  were  massacred.'  •  At 
Heure-le-Romain,  the  cure  of  the  parish,  M.  l'Abbe 
Janssen,  and  M.  Leonard,  brother  of  the  burgomaster, 
were  taken  behind  the  church,  tied  together,  and  shot. 
Seventy-two  houses  were  burnt,  and  twenty-seven 
persons  killed.'  .  .  . 

"  My  God  !  .  .  .  There  are  about  two  columns  of  that 
sort  of  thing,  and  that  is  for  the  province  of  Liege  alone  ! 
.  .  .  Just  to  think  that  it  might  have  been  Avenches, 
Moudon,  Lucens,  Goumoens,  Preverenges,  Cheseaux  !  .  .  . 
And  magistrates,  pastors,  mayors  !  .  .  .  Belgium,  to  me, 
is  almost  like  another  Switzerland.  ...  And  those  terrible 
asphyxiating  gases.  .  .  .  And  the  Lusitania,  with  its 
two  thousand  passengers,  sunk,  amongst  them  forty 
children,  scarcely  five  years  old,  not  to  mention  three 
Swiss  citizens  !  .  .  .  Horrible  !  .  .  .  Have  people  got  con- 
sciences, or  not  ?  .  .  .  Does  justice  stop  short  at  the 
frontier  ?  .  .  .  Neutral,  neutral !  It's  easy  to  say  it,  and 
the  Government  perhaps  may  be  all  right,  but  for  any 
man  who  has  a  heart  in  his  breast,  it's  impossible  for  his 
blood  not  to  boil  with  anger  !  .  .  .  Damn  it  all !  I  with- 
draw every  word  I  said  at  Bioley  !  Every  word  !  do 
you  hear  ?     And  I  throw  myself  from  this  moment  openly 


296  POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR 

on  the  side  of  the  Allies.  I  had  intended  to  give  up 
doing  anything  to  show  where  my  sympathies  were,  but 
this  very  evening  I  shall  go  to  the  station  to  see  the 
wounded  pass  through.  I  shall  take  them  wine,  cigars, 
papers,  letters,  sweets.  .  .  .  Yes,  for  the  future  I  don't 
care  how  much  I  compromise  myself.  I'm  going  to  shout 
out  before  everybody,  '  Vive  la  Eelgique  !'  " 
Madame  Potterat  wore  a  very  anxious  face. 
"  My  dear  David,  there  you  are,  working  yourself  up 
into  a  fever  again  .  .  .  and  we  were  so  happy  these  last 
few  days.  You  believe  every  word  that  you  see  in  the 
newspapers.  ...  How  do  you  know  whether  it's  true  or 
not  ?  .  .  .  Those  burnt  villages,  those  murdered  people, 
have  you  seen  them  ?" 

"  Have  you  seen  America  ?  .  .  .  Besides,  I've  heard 
what  those  Belgians  at  Regamey's  told  us  .  .  .  and  ours 
too.  .  .  .  when  they  described  that  red  wall  on  the  horizon. 
.  .  .  They  are  good  people,  these  Belgians,  for  the  most 
part,  and  not  given  to  exaggerating  things  ...  in  fact, 
they  haven't  enough  imagination.  .  .  .  They're  all  the 
better  witnesses  for  that.  ...  And  this  Commission  of 
Inquiry  was  composed  of  people  above  suspicion,  people 
like  our  prefects,  collectors,  Councillors  of  State,  and  so  on. 
...  If  we  had  had  these  awful  experiences,  what  would 
you  say  if  the  Belgians  said,  when  they  read  about 
them,  '  We  did  not  see  anything  '  ?  .  .  .  The  question  is, 
has  Belgium  been  violated  or  not  ?  H'm  !  .  .  .  The 
victims  tell  the  truth,  because  it  is  to  their  interest  to 
do  so,  but  supposing  there  should  be  in  their  stories  a 
grain  of  falsehood,  does  that  justify  us  in  rejecting  all 
the  rest  ?  .  .  .  These  declarations,  made  before  the  Com- 
mission of  Inquiry,  are  signed  and  countersigned,  and 
sworn  to  before  God  and  before  the  world;  it  is  a  docu- 
ment for  posterity,  and  I  say  that  any  Swiss  who  can 
doubt  the  truth  of  this  Report  ought  to  be  put  in  a 
sack  and  thrown  into  the  Lake.  .  .  .    One  can't  doubt 


POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR  207 

the  evidence  of  people  who  have  been  murdered  for  no 
apparent  reason.  ...  I  repeat  '  Vive  la  Belgique  !'  .  .  . 
Shame  and  disgrace  on  those  who  talk  of  '  scraps  of 
paper  '  !     Shame  !     Shame  !" 

"  David  !  I  don't  know  what  will  happen  to  you  if 
you  begin  to  insult  people  like  this  !  .  .  .  Do  you  know 
that  there's  a  fine  of  five  thousand  francs  and  six  months' 
imprisonment  now,  for  anyone  who  says  that  a  nation, 
or  an  army,  or  a  part  of  an  army,  has  been  guilty  of 
disgraceful  conduct  ?  .  .  ." 
"What's  that?" 

"  It's  true,  I  tell  you  !  .  .  .  You  never  read  anything 
that  isn't  about  the  war.  But  there  are  things  happening 
in  Switzerland,  all  the  same.  Look  here  !  I  kept  the 
paper.  There  it  is,  at  the  top  of  the  second  page :  '  Any- 
one who  publicly  vilifies,  with  a  view  to  influencing 
public  opinion,  or  who  holds  up  to  hatred  or  contempt, 
either  by  word  of  mouth,  or  by  writing,  or  by  pictures, 
any  foreign  nation,  ruler,  or  government,  is  liable  to  six 
months'  imprisonment,  and  a  fine  of  five  thousand 
francs.'  .  .  .  Now  you  see  what  will  happen  if  you  go 
shouting  at  every  corner,  '  It  is  disgusting  !'  '  Shame 
and  disgrace  !'  and  the  rest.  ..." 

"  '  Publicly,'   it   says,"   rectified   Potterat,    somewhat 
sobered.     ' '  This  is  not  in  public.     Who  is  there  to  hear  ? ' ' 
"  But  you  talk  just  as  freely  as  that  going  along  the 
road,  and  in  the  tram." 

"  Then  if  one's  Government  disgraces  itself,  the  good 
citizen  must  keep  his  mouth  shut  ?  .  .  .  Supposing  I  were 
to  break  a  contract,  or  get  into  my  neighbour's  house, 
I  should  be  sent  to  prison  at  once;  but  Governments, 
apparently,  can  do  this  sort  of  thing  with  impunity  ! 
It's  the  usual  thing,  I  suppose.  '  One  law  for  the  rich, 
and  another  for  the  poor  !'  .  .  .  My  God  !  It's  enough 
to  drive  one  mad  !  .  .  .  Now  that  a  man  can't  say  what 
is  true  without  being  punished  for  it  as  severely  as  if  he 


298  POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR 

had  been  guilty  of  swindling,  well,  for  us  humble  folk, 
who  are  honest,  and  who  love  justice,  there's  nothing 
for  it  but  to  sit  at  home  and  smoke.  ...  To  say  nothing, 
no  matter  what  happens  !  .  .  .  Oh,  very  well !  All  right  ! 
They  needn't  worry  any  more.  Go  on,  my  friends  ! 
Violate  neutral  countries,  burn,  kill,  do  what  you 
like.  .  .  . 

y  And  we,  who  have  always  stood  up  for  Liberty  and 
Country;  we,  whose  motto  is,  '  One  for  all,  all  for  one  !'; 
we  who  sing  'Before  God  alone  we  bow  the  knee!'; 
we  are  told  '  Silence  !  .  .  .  You  mustn't  abuse  the  in- 
vaders !  .  .  .  Six  months'  imprisonment,  and  5,000  francs 
fine,  if  you  do  !'  .  .  .   Oh,  it  will  drive  me  mad  !  .  .  ." 

"  When  one  is  not  in  the  Government,  there  are  some 
things  that  one  can't  always  understand.  But  there's 
no  need  to  rush  into  anarchy  because  of  that.  ..." 

"  Anarchists  ! . . .  I  know  very  well  where  the  anarchists 
are  to-day !  .  .  .  But  I  mustn't  say  anything  more.  I 
respect  everybody.  I  take  off  my  hat  to  invaders  and 
traitors.  ...  I  spoke  of  shame  and  disgrace  just  now,  but 
I  take  back  my  words.  I  withdraw  what  I  thought.  I 
withdraw  my  convictions,  my  feelings,  my  opinions,  my 
words  past,  present,  and  future.  . .  .  Invasion  of  Belgium  ? 
...  Not  a  bit  of  it  !  They  mistook  their  way,  that  was 
all !  .  .  .  Lusitania  ?  .  .  .  A  mere  accident !  .  .  .  Villages 
burnt  down  ?  .  .  .  Carelessness  !  .  .  .  Civilians .  killed  ? 
...  An  oversight !  .  .  .  There  !  I'm  silent  !  I'm  silent ! 
I'm  silent !     I'm  muzzled  !" 

"Really,  David,  you  are  unreasonable!  That  law  is 
intended  to  prevent  agitators  from  stirring  up  trouble. 
It  isn't  intended  to  be  applied.  ..." 

'•  I  don't  care  whether  it's  applied  or  not.  It  exists. 
That's  enough  for  me." 

"  And  you  still  intend  to  go  down  to  the  station  ?  .  .  ." 

"  Certainly  !  .  .  .  I'm  going  with  Zimmerli.  It's  not 
yet  forbidden,  I  hope,  to  throw  a  few  sweets  and  things 


POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR  299 

to  some  cripples,  or  that !  .  .  .  And  now  let's  have  supper. 
We're  still  alive.  That's  something  to  be  thankful  for, 
anyhow.  The  dead  are  dead.  So  much  the  better  for 
them  !" 

It  was  midnight.     Potterat  yawned  three  times. 
'  They  say  the  train  won't  be  in  until  about  2.40.  .  .  . 
That  means  that  we  must  stay  up  all  night.     Well,  I'll 
walk  about  a  bit.  .  .  .   Let's  have  a  smoke.  ..." 

Three  knocks,  one  after  the  other,  resounded  from  the 
ceiling  of  the  flat  below. 

"  All  right  !  All  right !"  said  Potterat,  who  was 
walking  up  and  down  like  a  caged  lion.  "  I'm  in  slippers. 
No  one  has  any  right  to  object." 

Solemnly,  the  blows  were  repeated.  Running  to  fetch 
his  stick,  Potterat  repeated  the  knocks  with  concentrated 
fury,  after  which  he  sat  down,  giving  up  the  struggle  in 
disgust. 

"  Oh,  let's  be  fair,"  he  said  to  himself.  "  When  the 
old  lady  objected  to  my  cornet  I  held  out,  because  she 
was  in  the  wrong,  seeing  that  I  was  playing  in  ordinary 
recognized  hours.  But  at  midnight,  people  want  to 
sleep.  That's  natural !  .  .  .  You  can  go  to  sleep,  old 
lady,  and  dream  of  the  lover  who  never  came  for  you. 
I  won't  budge  again.  ..." 

Sitting  with  his  arms  folded,  Potterat  went  over  again 
in  memory  that  first  occasion  on  which  he  had  gone  to 
see  the  passing  through  of  the  badly  wounded,  some 
months  before.  Again  he  saw  the  immense  crowds,  kept 
back  from  the  platforms  by  policemen,  whose  helmets 
barred  all  means  of  access  to  the  trains.  Some  words 
were  exchanged  from  time  to  time  between  the  people 
and  the  police. 

"  WVre  not  going  to  do  them  any  harm.  ..." 

"  But  surely  we  may  offer  a  few  chocolates  to  the 
wounded  ?  .  .  ." 


300  POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR 

And  women  held  up  their  baskets  for  inspection,  con- 
taining white  packets.  One  could  easily  see  that  these 
big  fair  policemen  were  not  over- pleased  with  their  task. 
They  answered  half-heartedly: 

"  Don't  push  like  that  !  .  .  .  Stand  back  there,  please  ! 
.  .  .  You  can  give  your  chocolates  another  time  !  .  .  ." 

"  Another  time  ?  .  .  .    When  ?  .  .  ." 

The  police  are  very  popular.  As  a  rule,  at  public  fetes, 
the  people  willingly  facilitate  their  duties.  But  in  this 
case,  it  seemed  to  the  people  incomprehensible  that  the 
police  should  apparently  feel  so  differently  from  them- 
selves. In  vain  had  Boulenaz  gently  remonstrated  with 
Potterat : 

'  You  ought  to  understand,  after  thirty  years  in  the 
Police,  that  an  order  is  an  order  !  .  .  ." 

Nonplussed  for  an  instant  only,  Potterat  then  retorted, 
with  a  sweeping  gesture  of  his  arms: 

'  The  will  of  the  people  is  sovereign,  even  in  war-time  ! 
Besides,  these  railways  are  ours.  .  .  .  And  anyhow,  what 
harm  can  possibly  be  done  by  our  coming  to  salute  the 
brave  men  who  have  fallen  for  their  country  ?  .  .  .  None. 
.  .  .    Rather  the  re  verse.' ' 

Boulenaz  said  nothing  more,  but  contented  himself 
with  a  shrug  of  the  shoulders.  Exasperated  by  this 
contemptuous  gesture,  Potterat  squared  his  shoulders, 
and  cried  out : 

"  Now  then  !  Women  and  children  to  the  back,  please, 
with  the  baskets.  Men  to  the  front.  .  .  .  Come  on,  you 
fellows  !  .  .  ." 

And  headed  by  Potterat 's  broad  chest,  a  sudden  rush 
of  the  crowd  made  a  big  gap  in  the  line  of  policemen.  .  .  . 
To  Boulenaz,  glued  against  a  wall,  Potterat  said  good- 
naturedly,  as  he  passed : 

"  Charity  comes  before  even  the  police-force  !" 
For  a  long  time  afterwards  Potterat  would  relate  this 
little  incident  with  pride.     For  one  brief  moment,  had 


POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR  301 

he  not  represented  the  mighty  will  of  the  people,  the 
voice  of  the  populace  ?  He  always  finished  up  by 
saying: 

"  Since  then  they  leave  the  station  open.  .  .  .  They 
know  better  than  to  attempt  that  sort  of  thing 
again  !  .  .  ." 

At  ten  minutes  to  two  o'clock,  he  went  up  to  call 
Zimmerli.  On  the  top  landing  he  struck  a  match: 
'Barbara  Tannenbaum.'  .  .  .  "Good  Heavens!  I've 
come  to  the  wrong  door  !"  Groping  his  way  across  to 
Zimmerli' s  door,  he  knocked  peremptorily. 

'  What  is  it  ?"  said  a  sleepy  voice. 

'■  The  police  !     Open  !  .  .  ." 

['  What  ? '.  .  ."  said  the  voice,  still  sleepy. 

"  Open,  in  the  name  of  the  law,  I  arrest  you  !  .  .  ." 

"  H'm  !  What  is  it  ? . . ."  Then  suddenly  a  frightened 
voice  was  heard.  "  Yes,  oh  yes  !  I'm  coming  !  . 
and  Mdlle.  Tannenbaum  had  jumped  out  of  bed,  and  the 
sound  of  her  little  pattering  feet  was  heard  as  she  came 
running  across  the  floor.  Then  the  keyhole  sent  out  a 
ray  of  light  into  the  passage. 

"  Who  is  there  ?  .  .  ." 

"  It's  nothing,  Mademoiselle.  It's  only  me  !  .  .  .  I 
was  playing  a  joke  on  my  friend  here.  .  .  .  We  are  going 
down  to  the  station  to  see  the  wounded  pass  through.  .  .  . 
Excuse  this  early  reveille." 

The  two  men  went  down  the  staircase  as  quietly  as 
they  could. 

"  Zimmerli,"  said  Potterat,  "  it  would  have  been  only 
polite  of  us  to  have  asked  Mdlle.  Tannenbaum  if  she'd 
care  to  come  with  us.  .  .  .  In  emotional  times  like  these, 
proposals  are  made  much  more  easily.  ...  It  would  be 
fine,  wouldn't  it,  to  get  engaged  under  the  eyes  of  the 
wounded  ?  .  .  ." 

"  How  dark  it  is  !  Pitch  dark.  .  .  .  One  can't  see  an 
inch  before  one  !"  replied  Zimmerli. 


302  POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR 

"  Oh,  that's  because  of  your  emotion  !  Love  is  blind, 
they  say." 

Presently,  they  were  walking  silently  through  the 
darkness. 

"  Zimmerli,  can  you  realize  it  all?"  said  Potterat 
suddenly.  "  Bugles,  and  drums,  and  bells  ringing, 
announce  war  ...  a  war  that  no  one  wanted.  .  .  .  Still, 
everyone  goes  willingly.  .  .  .  They  march  off  singing.  .  .  . 
Then  three  days  after,  they  are  in  a  perfect  hell !  .  .  . 
Marching,  fighting,  killing,  blood  and  wounds  every- 
where. .  .  .  Men  shouting  and  fighting  madly.  Then 
silence.  .  .  .  You  know  nothing  more  for  a  time.  .  .  . 
Then  you  wake  up  with  an  arm  or  a  leg  gone,  and  you 
are  a  prisoner  of  war  amongst  strangers  who  don't  know 
a  word  of  your  own  language.  By-and-by,  you  are  able 
to  begin  to  creep  about  on  crutches,  ...  or,  if  you  are 
blind,  you  begin  to  grope  your  way  about,  with  your 
hands  stretched  out  in  front  of  you,  groping,  groping,  in 
that  darkness  which  is  going  to  last  for  the  rest  of  your 
life.  .  .  .  This  sort  of  thing  goes  on  for  eleven  months, 
eleven  long  months,  far  from  your  home  and  family, 
your  friends  and  your  country.  .  .  .  Eleven  months  ! 
And  now  you're  going  back  home.  What  a  home- 
coming !  .  .  .  You'd  think  your  heart  would  leap  out  of 
your  breast  with  joy  !  .  .  .  Often  in  the  night  when  I 
can't  sleep,  I  have  imagined  these  home-coming  scenes, 
.  .  .  and  I  assure  you,  I  have  been  quite  overcome,  quite 
overcome  !  .  .  .  It  takes  my  breath  away  !  .  .  .  Some- 
times, I've  even  had  to  get  up  and  walk  about  for  a  bit. 
...  I  don't  tell  my  wife,  because  it  would  only  frighten 
her,  but  this  war  has  started  something  wrong  inside.  .  .  . 
I  have  terrible  shoots  of  pain  every  now  and  then,  and 
a  kind  of  tingling.  ..." 

"  Yes,  it  gnaws  at  one  !  .  .  ."  replied  Zimmerli  simply. 

Slowly,  slowly,  with  the  infinite  care  of  a  mother, 
fearing  to  hurt  her  sick  child,  the  long  train  glided  in, 


POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR  303 

filled  with  the  mutilated  soldiers,  their  pale  faces  smiling 
from  rows  of  stretchers,  hung  one  above  another.  The 
crowd  welcomed  enthusiastically  these  glorious  remnants 
of  men,  who  had  offered  their  lives  so  freely,  but  of  whom 
Death  had  taken  only  a  part.  .  .  .  Outstretched  hands, 
kindly  eyes  looking  into  their  eyes,  confused  shouts, 
everyone  offering  that  sympathy  which  wells  up  from 
the  depths  of  the  human  heart  in  such  moments  as  these. 
.  .  .  Nothing  individual,  no  consciousness  of  me  and  thee, 
something  nameless,  and  simply  human,  gratitude,  pity, 
admiration  in  one  strong  rush  of  mingled  emotions. 
.  .  .  This  enthusiasm,  too,  seemed  to  reveal  the  wounded 
to  themselves,  raised  them  out  of  the  grey  depths  of 
depression,  the  long  dreary  nights  of  exile  and  pain,  and 
set  them  up  on  pinnacles  of  heroism,  lighting  the  way 
for  their  brothers  still  fighting  in  that  other  night  of 
horror.  .  .  .  But  yesterday  peasants,  with  their  petty 
little  interests,  humble  citizens,  unknown  to  fame,  .  .  . 
to-day  they  were  held  up  to  this  crowd  as  shining  examples 
of  the  splendour  of  willing  sacrifice,  the  greater  in  pro- 
portion as  they  had  been  brought  low.  Wonderful  to 
relate,  it  was  they,  now,  who  seemed  to  be  blessed  and 
privileged  beyond  their  fellows. 

Potterat  ran  excitedly  from  carriage  to  carriage, 
pressing  their  hands  in  his  strong,  warm  clasp,  throwing 
tobacco  and  chocolate  to  all  around  him,  drawing  letter 
after  letter  from  his  inner  pocket. 

"  Look  here  !  Read  that  when  you  are  alone  !  It  is 
from  Switzerland,  and  from  a  Swiss  man.  .  .  .  Where 
did  you  fall?" 

"  On  the  10th  August.     A  leg  shattered  by  a  shell. 

"  Good  Lord  !  And  we  make  such  a  fuss  when  we 
have  to  go  to  the  dentist !  .  .  .  And  did  they  treat  you 
kindly  in  hospital  ?" 

"  Oh  yes,  just  the  same  as  their  own  men." 

"  And  don't  you  bear  them  any  ill-will  for  having 
taken  off  your  leg  ?" 


304  POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR 

"  Good  Heavens,  no  ! . . .  What  can  you  expect  in  war?" 

"  Well,  you're  a  long  way  better  than  I  am.  I  have 
all  my  limbs  arid  yet  I'm  boiling  with  rage.  ..." 

A  Senegalese  touched  Potterat's  shoulder: 

"  You  French  ?" 

"  No,  Vaudois.  And  you  ?  .  .  .  You're  a  negro,  aren't 
you  ?  But  that  doesn't  matter  a  bit.  I'm  very  fond 
of  negroes.  .  .  .  Have  some  chocolate  ?  .  .  .  You  can  eat 
as  much  as  you  like,  you  needn't  be  afraid.  Ah  !  .  .  . 
You  have  only  one  arm  !  .  .  ." 

"  Light  one  !  Light  one  !"  grinned  the  negro,  show- 
ing all  his  white  teeth. 

"  Ha,  ha  !  The  one  that  is  left  is  always  the  right  one, 
hey  ?  .  .  ." 

Potterat,  however,  kept  in  reserve  one  letter  which  it 
had  taken  him  long  to  compose  and  write.  To  whom 
should  he  give  it  ? 

"  I'll  give  it  to  that  officer,"  he  decided.  "  He'll 
understand,  I'm  sure.  And  he's  about  my  own  age,  too. 
And  he  looks  calm  and  cool  ...  as  if  he  had  plenty  of 
common  sense.  Here  goes  !"  The  officer  in  question,  a 
grey-haired  Major,  was  looking  at  Potterat,  who  took  his 
courage  in  both  hands  and  approached  him. 

"  Pardon,  Monsieur,  here  is  a  letter. . .  .  May  I  explain  ? 
.  .  .  The  fact  is,  you  see.  .  .  .  Well,  anyhow,  I  must  thank 
you  for  having  fought  in  the  cause  of  right.  .  .  .  My 
respects  to  you  !  .  .  .  I  wish  you  a  very  happy  return 
to  your  home,  and  may  you  find  your  good  lady  and 
your  children  all  well !  .  .  .  Are  you  badly  wounded  ?  .  .  . 
A  leg,  too  !  .  .  .   Good-bye,  sir  !     My  respects  !" 

The  officer  took  the  letter.  Whether  it  was  the  effect 
of  Potterat's  respectfully  sympathetic  voice  and  eyes, 
his  warm-hearted  good-fellowship,  or  the  reference  to  his 
family,  is  uncertain,  but  the  stern  face  was  strangely 
moved,  and  presently  a  tear  rolled  down  the  tanned 
cheek.     Seeing  this,  Potterat  held  out  his  big  hand. 


POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR  305 

"  I  understand,  sir,  perfectly.  In  your  place,  I  should 
feel  just  the  same.  True  heroes  are  not  made  of  stone. 
...  On  the  contrary.  .  .  .   Vive  la  France,  Monsieur  !" 

Too  much  moved  to  be  able  to  speak,  perhaps  too 
recently  freed  from  long  months  of  iron  self-restraint, 
the  Major  followed  with  his  eyes  the  big  kindly  man, 
as  he  threaded  his  way  through  the  crowd  in  search  of 
some  other  hand  to  shake. 

"  Pardon,  Madame,  are  there  any  wounded  in  this 
carriage  ?"" 

A  woman,  in  a  long  white  veil,  marked  with  a  red 
cross,  turned  at  the  sound  of  his  voice. 
"  Ah,  Monsieur.  Ho  one  is  allowed  to  come  in  here." 
"  Don't  be  afraid,  I  don't  wish  to  break  any  rules,  but 
I  have  one  bunch  of  flowers  left,  a  lovely  bunch,  see,  of 
red,  white,  and  blue  flowers,  the  tricolour,  hey  ?  Perhaps 
you'd  kindly  give  it  to  someone  in  there  ?  From 
Potterat." 

"  My  dear  sir,  these  poor  men  in  here  are  blind." 
\  You  don't  say  so  !  .  .  ..    But  they  could  smell  them 
anyhow.  .  .  .     One  can  almost  see  a  flower  when  one 
smells  it.  .  .  ." 

The  nurse  was  touched.  She  made  a  sign  to  the  police- 
man on  duty,  who  discreetly  looked  away,  and  said  to 
Potterat : 

'  Well,  you  can  come  in  just  for  a  minute,  and  give 
them  yourself." 

Coming  into  this  carriage,  Potterat  had  a  wave  of  the 
strongest  sympathy  and  sorrow  he  had  ever  experienced. 
It  seemed  to  him  that  he  was  in  the  presence  of  his 
judges,  of  beings  elect  through  suffering.  Timidly,  divid- 
ing up  his  flowers,  he  placed  some  in  the  hands  of  the 
four  men  in  the  compartment.  To  the  last  one,  little 
more  than  a  boy,  he  said : 
"  Here  are  some  flowers  for  you,  my  friend." 
Not  a  movement  was  seen  on  the  bandaged  face.     "  I 

20 


306  POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR 

am  for  ever  alone  in  the  depths  of  my  sorrow  and  despair," 
it  seemed  to  say.     "  Leave  me  alone,  I  am  going  back  to 
my  country,  but  I  shall  never  see  it  more." 
Raising  a  branch  of  fragrant  bloom,  Potterat  said: 
"Just  smell  that." 

The  young  man  smelt  it,  but  remained  unmoved. 

'  Is  your  mother  still  alive  ?"  asked  Potterat  tenderly, 
and  this  time  the  boy's  lips  quivered,  and  he  nodded 
1  Yes.' 

"  Ah,  well,  then,  courage  !  .  .  .  Courage  for  your 
mother's  sake  !  .  .  .  How  she  will  rejoice  to  have  you 
again,  to  nurse  you  and  comfort  you  !  .  .  .  And  perhaps 
Madame  here  will  kindly  give  me  your  address,  the 
addresses  of  all  of  you,  and  I  will  send  you  a  postcard 
every  week." 

The  blind  boy,  with  a  sudden  gesture,  tore  off  two 
buttons  from  his  uniform,  and  gave  them  to  Potterat, 
saying : 

"  Here  !  .  .  .  Keep  these  as  a  souvenir.  .  .  .  And  thank 
you  very  much  !  .  .  .  Oh,  but  the  time  will  be  long,  long  ! 
...  I  don't  know  how  I  shall  live  through  it !  .  .  ." 

Potterat  felt  he  could  bear  no  more.  He  placed  his 
hands  on  the  boy's  shoulders,  leaned  down  over  him, 
and  kissed  him  on  the  forehead,  then  ran  out  so  quickly 
that  the  nurse  had  to  run  after  him  to  give  him  the 
addresses. 

'  You've  done  them  good,"  she  said.  "  I  saw  them 
smiling.  ..." 

"  It's  they  who  have  done  me  good,  Madame.  .  .  . 
Poor  fellows  !  .  .  .  What  an  awful  thing  war  is  !  .  .  .  I 
feel  quite  broken-hearted  !" 

When  Potterat  found  Zimmerli,  he  dragged  him  away 
at  once. 

"  Let's  go,  let's  go  !  .  .  .  I  feel  as  if  I  should  choke  if  I 
stayed  another  minute.  .  .  .  What  misery  and  suffering  ! 
,  .  .  Oh,  war  is  horrible  .  .  .  horrible  !     To  see  that  trainful 


POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR  307 

of  young  men,  ruined  for  life,  disfigured,  without  legs 
and  arms  !  .  .  .  And  the  most  curious  thing  about  it  all 
is  that  they  are  so  gentle,  so  unresentful.  It's  only  me 
who  wants  to  rave  and  storm,  and  to  shake  my  fist.  .  .  . 
I  begin  to  think  that  it's  not  angry  words  that  will  do 
any  good.  .  .  .  But  isn't  our  part  a  beastly  one  ?  To  be 
good  little  children,  and  eat  our  cake,  and  keep  far  away 
from  the  fighting  !  .  .  .  Oh,  it  makes  me  perfectly  wild  ! 
It  makes  me  sick  with  everything  and  everybody.  .  .  . 
I  came,  thinking  to  cheer  them  up  a  little,  but  I'm  blessed 
if  it  isn't  they  who  are  the  most  cheerful  after  all !  .  .  . 
But  those  poor  men,  what  sort  of  a  future  can  they  have  ? 
...  A  man  may  get  along  somehow  with  only  one  arm, 
or  one  leg,  but  if  he's  blind  ?  .  .  .  Ah  well,  if  they  don't 
see  victory,  they'll  hear  it.  The  bands  will  play  under 
their  windows.  Victory  !  .  .  .  I  pity  those  poor  fellows 
who  won't  live  to  see  that  joyful  day." 

To  all  this  Zimmerli  replied  only  by  shaking  his  head. 
When  Potterat  told  him  how  many  of  the  wounded  had 
spoken  gratefully  of  their  warm  welcome  in  German 
Switzerland,  he  brightened  up. 

"  Oh,  I've  no  doubt !  They're  just  the  same  there  as 
here.  We  must  all  agree  that  in  this  war,  there  are 
faults  on  both  sides.  ..." 

"  No,  Zimmerli,  it's  no  use.  .  .  .  You'll  never  get  me 
to  swallow  that.  I'm  not  going  to  agree  with  what  I 
think  is  a  lie.  Who  was  it  who  declared  this  war  first  ? 
.  .  .  There's  all  the  difference  in  the  world  between  de- 
claring war  and  defending  oneself,  just  as  much  as  between 
giving  and  receiving  a  blow.  .  .  .  Was  it  France  who 
violated  Belgium  and  Luxemburg  ?  .  .  .  And  what 
about  Reims  Cathedral  ?  .  .  .  And  those  asphyxiating 
gases  ?  .  .  .  That  was  the  worst  thing  of  all;  for  men  to 
be  struck  down  without  a  wound;  one  minute  perfectly 
strong  and  fit;  the  next,  spitting  blood,  gasping  for 
breath,  choking,  and  for  weeks  after,  fighting  for  every 


3o8  POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR 

breath,  dying  twice  over  before  they  close  their  eyes. 
.  .  .  That  breathing  was  not  much  like  your  zither 
playing.  ..." 

"  Potterat,  you're  absolutely  on  one  side." 
'  You're  quite  right.  I  am.  ...  I'm  on  the  side  of 
justice.  If  the  English  or  the  French  had  invaded 
Belgium,  I  should  have  been  down  on  them  all  the  time. 
...  You  may  remember  how  I  went  on  about  that  law- 
suit in  France  a  little  while  ago.  ...  I  am  not  biased, 
but  I'm  certainly  against  those  who  have  bathed  Europe 
in  blood,  thinking  that  they  were  going  to  snatch  a  hasty 
victory  by  taking  everyone  by  surprise,  and  that  very 
soon  all  would  be  forgotten.  Because  one  is  neutral,  it 
doesn't  follow  that  one  puts  all  common  sense  and  judg- 
ment out  of  one's  head.  ...  '  Faults  on  both  sides/ 
indeed  !  .  .  .  Let  them  bring  back  all  the  Belgians  they 
have  killed,  and  then  we'll  talk  about  that.  ...  I  only 
hope  that  the  dreams  of  those  responsible  will  be  haunted 
by  the  five  millions  or  so  of  skeletons  that  this  war  of 
theirs  has  made,  and  I  wish  that  they  could  be  drowned 
in  the  tears  of  the  widows  and  orphans.  ...  I  speak  out 
plainly  just  what  I  think;  I'm  no  friend  of  soporific 
patriotism  !  .  .  .  Right  is  right,  and  crime  is  crime.  .  .  . 
And  a  decent  man  will  always  stick  to  that,  come  what 
may.  ...  If  a  man  has  to  keep  his  mouth  shut  all  the 
time,  he'd  be  much  more  use  in  the  world  as  a  chicken 
or  a  rabbit.  ..." 

Zimmerli,  with  his  gentle  faded  face,  his  timidly 
pious  little  soul,  his  dream  of  a  colourless  heaven,  re- 
torted : 

"  We  mustn't  judge  others,  my  friend.  We  don't 
know  all  the  circumstances.  There  are  all  sorts  of 
complications.  '  To  know  all,  is  to  forgive  all !'  you 
know." 

"  Well,  I'd  punish  well  first." 

"  Forgiveness  is  the  noblest  part.  ..." 


POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR  309 

"  No,  punishment.  That's  God's  way,  too.  Look  at 
the  way  the  whole  world  has  been  under  a  curse  this  six 
thousand  years  past,  just  for  an  apple  stolen  in  a  weak 
moment !" 

"The  finest  vengeance  is  forgiveness." 

"  Oh,  your  '  forgiveness  '  is  what  I  should  call  '  funk.' 
...  If  you're  such  a  saint  as  all  that,  just  you  go  across 
the  Lake,  and  preach  that  sort  of  thing  to  the  Savoyard 
mothers  whose  sons  they  have  killed,  and  see  what  they'll 
say  !  .  .  ." 

"  What  about  Napoleon  ?" 

"  Well,  he  was  sent  to  die  in  exile.  .  .  .  That's  all  I  ask 
for  those  who  are  responsible  for  this  war.  .  .  .  This  war 
has  been  forced  on  France,  Zimmerli,  .  .  .  there's  no 
getting  away  from  that.  And  the  proper  thing  for 
Switzerland  to  do  is  to  proclaim  that  fact,  and  to  act 
accordingly.  When  a  country  is  afraid  of  taking  its 
stand  boldly  on  the  side  of  right,  it  is  very  near  the  edge 
of  a  precipice." 

*  There  will  be  no  need  to  talk  of  precipices  if  only  we 
are  united." 

"  United  in  what  ?  .  .  .  That's  what  I  want  to  know  ? 
...  Is  it  in  steering  clear  of  offence,  in  equivocating, 
in  sacrificing  everything  to  getting  in  provisions  ?  .  .  . 
Or  is  it  in  pride,  in  truth  and  honour,  in  horror  of  all 
that  has  been  done  ?  .  .  .  When  they  invaded  Belgium, 
they  compelled  us  to  take  part  in  the  discussion,  as  it 
were.  Nobody  but  a  poor  brainless,  bloodless  thing  of 
a  man,  or  a  country,  but  would  feel  compelled  to  give 
his  frank  opinion,  a  plain,  downright  opinion,  an  opinion 
which  he  would  be  prepared  to  defend,  if  necessary. 
Well,  we've  done  that,  but  we're  not  doing  it  in  the  right 
way;  we're  doing  it  in  a  hole-and-corner  fashion,  behind 
doors,  and  in  a  day-after-to-morrow-rather-than-to-day 
style.  ..." 

"  But  do  you  think  of  the  consequences  ?  .  .  ," 


310  POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR 

"  My  poor  fellow !  We  had  better  die  quietly  to 
escape  the  danger  of  living.  .  .  .  We're  getting  very 
clever  at  calling  things  by  other  names.  .  .  .  You  mustn't 
talk  about  crime  now,  but  about  a  '  regrettable  action.' 
...  I  suppose  we  shouldn't  say  a  thing  is  round,  but 
a  '  rather  exaggerated  oval.'  ..." 

By  this  time  they  had  arrived  at  the  third-floor  landing 
of  the  flats. 

"  Well,  I  must  think  over  what  you've  said,"  replied 
Zimmerli  gently.     "  Good-night !" 

'  Yes.  Think  it  over  when  you  are  in  bed,  Zimmerli. 
A  good  man  like  you  ought  to  make  up  his  mind  for  him- 
self. Good-night !  .  .  .  Don't  go  to  the  wrong  door  as 
I  did!" 

It  was  now  about  half-past  three.  Potterat  felt  it 
would  be  impossible  to  sleep,  so  many  thoughts  were 
whirling  through  his  brain,  so  he  lit  his  pipe,  got  into  his 
slippers,  and  began  to  walk  round  and  round  the  dining- 
room  table.  He  longed  to  put  on  the  gramophone.  .  .  . 
Why  not,  if  he  took  the  precaution  of  shutting  it  up 
in  a  cupboard  ?  .  .  .  A  bugle  call  has  an  effect,  even 
when  it's  muffled.  .  .  .  Instantaneously  transported  by 
the  music  into  heroic  scenes,  enveloped  in  thick  clouds 
of  smoke  from  his  furious  smoking,  Potterat  disposed  his 
troops,  attacked,  took  three  trenches  at  the  point  of  the 
bayonet,  captured  a  flag,  and  five  mitrailleuses.  .  .  . 
Two  glasses  of  good  white  wine  from  La  Cote  refreshed 
him  after  his  exertions.  .  .  .  After  this  his  thoughts 
took  another  direction.  He  followed  those  blinded 
soldiers  into  their  future  lives.  For  the  others,,  spring, 
summer,  autumn,  winter,  would  unfold  their  beauties  in 
due  succession;  but  for  these  it  would  always  be  night, 
one  long  night,  stretching  through  days,  weeks,  months, 
years ;  always,  always  night !  .  .  .  Oh,  here  !  This  would 
never  do  !  .  .  .  Put  on  the  gramophone  again.  .  .  .  Another 
fanfare  !  .  ,  .   "  That  Major  must  have  read  my  letter 


POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR  311 

by  now,  I  expect.  One  never  knows  what  good  a  little 
word  may  do,  if  it  comes  just  at  the  right  moment 
.  .  ."  he  reflected.  ...  "  He  had  a  fine  face,  that  Major, 
a  handsome  face,  too,  with  his  moustache,  his  round 
chin,  his  clear,  shrewd,  honest  eyes,  ...  a  man  after  my 
own  heart  .  .  .  and  how  he  responded  and  understood, 
in  a  flash.  ...  In  this  war,  it  seems  to  me,  it  is  the 
duty  of  civilians  to  encourage  the  military  all  they  can 
...  a  kind  word,  a  kind  thought,  whenever  possible,  is 
a  great  help  in  keeping  up  a  man's  heart.  ..." 

Then  a  great  idea  suddenly  came  to  Potterat.  To 
evolve  it  the  better,  he  drank  yet  one  more  glass  of 
wine.  Then  he  put  a  sheet  of  notepaper  in  front  of  him ; 
three  times  his  pen  approached  the  paper,  and  three 
times  it  was  withdrawn,  as  he  said  to  himself : 

"  Don't  be  a  fool,  Potterat  !  ..."  A  Major,  perhaps, 
it  might  not  seem  so  impossible;  a  Colonel,  it  would 
be  a  bit  of  cheek;  a  General  would  think  you  were 
presuming;  but  a  Commander-in-Chief  would  simply 
think  you  mad  !  .  .  .  Never  mind,  here  goes  !  .  .  .  Turn 
on  '  Sambre  et  Meuse  '  ...  it  sounds  almost  better  in  a 
cupboard  than  in  the  open  air  !  Seems  as  if  it  came 
from  the  clouds.  ..." 

As  soon  as  it  reached  the  point  where  the  bugles 
ring  out  triumphantly,  Potterat  rushed  back  to  the 
table. 

"  Take  up  that  pen  again,"  he  said  to  himself.  "  Now 
then,  short  and  sweet,  that's  the  style  !  .  .  .  You  needn't 
be  afraid  of  writing  to  good  people.  .  .  .  Courage  !  .  .  . 
Only  you  mustn't  hum  and  ha  and  beat  about  the  bush. 
Go  straight  to  the  point.  .  .  .  You've  been  thinking  about 
writing  this  letter  for  a  long  time.  .  .  .  Now's  your  chance. 
.  .  .  One  feels  ever  so  much  less  neutral,  somehow,  at 
night,  than  in  the  day-time.  ...    Go  on  !  .  .  ." 

His  head  bent  low  over  the  paper,  his  eyes  fixed,  his 
thick  eyebrows  frowning  terribly,  Potterat  wrote : 


312  POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR 

'TO  GENERAL  JOFFRE,  COMMANDER-IN-CHIEF. 

'  Honoured  Sir,  and  Great  Commander, 

'  I  am  one  of  the  thousands  of  citizens,  neutral 
by  national  obligations  outwardly,  but  whose  eyes  are 
fixed  on  the  Right,  and  who  follow  you,  and  encourage 
you,  in  thought.  As  you  have  plenty  to  occupy  your 
mind,  I  will  come  to  the  point  at  once;  we  are  counting 
on  you  to  drive  the  invaders  out  of  Belgium.  .  .  .  Beware 
of  flank  movements;  continue  to  treat  the  soldier  with 
sympathy,  and  at  the  right  moment  your  arms  will  be 
crowned  with  victory.  It  is  a  Swiss  who  writes  this,  a 
pure-bred  Vaudois,  who  loves  his  own  country  so  much, 
that  he  wishes  to  see  the  complete  restoration  and  purifica- 
tion of  the  invaded  countries. 

'  Your  respectful  and  devoted 

1  David  Potterat, 

'Retired  Police-Inspector, 
'5,  Avenue  des  Roses, 
'  Lausanne. 

1  P.S.— This  very  night  I  took  some  cigars  to  your 
wounded  soldiers  at  the  station.  They  were  very  badly 
cut  up,  poor  fellows,  but  their  spirit  is  splendid.  My 
respects.' 

Having  blotted  it,  Potterat  read  the  letter  over. 

"  That'll  do,"  he  said.  "  Matter  and  manner  both  are 
all  right,  I  think.  Now  for  the  address:  Grand  Head- 
quarters of  France.  .  .  .  Anyhow,  the  postman  will  know 
where  it  is  all  right." 

Encouraged  by  this  attempt,  Potterat  thought  that 
while  he  was  about  it,  he  might  as  well  write  another 
letter,  so  he  drew  a  second  sheet  towards  him.  He 
coughed  respectfully,  as  one  coughs  on  entering  church. 

"  Ought  I  ?  .  .  .  or  not  ?  .  .  .  Oh,  don't  be  so  silly  !  .  .  . 
Afraid  of  writing  to  a  crowned  head  ?  .  .  .  Bah  !  You'll 
have  all  to-morrow  and  the  next  day  to  repent  in.  .  .  . 


POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR  313 

Good  actions  have  to  be  done  in  a  rush,  one  following 
hard  on  another.  .  .  .  And  they  say,  too,  that  he  is  as 
simple  as  possible.  .  .  .  Much  less  proud  than  many 
ordinary  people  here.     Now  then,  go  on  !" 

'TO  ALBERT  I.,  KING  OF  THE  BELGIANS. 

■  Most  Honoured  Sovereign, 

'  Honour  to  the  people's  king  !  We  follow  you 
here  in  Switzerland.  You  have  won  all  our  hearts.  You 
will  be  a  king  for  all  time,  not  merely,  like  the  others, 
for  the  duration  of  your  life.  You  have  never  trafficked 
with  dishonour;  from  the  first  moment,  you  have  taken 
your  stand  upon  honour.  It  is  the  best  place.  I  prophesy 
for  you  a  splendid  future.  I  am  a  Republican,  but  I 
cry  with  all  my  heart,  "  Long  live  the  King  of  Belgium  !" 

1  From  a  Swiss  who  protests  against  greedy  devouring 
kingdoms,  and  who  has  had,  all  through  the  winter,  two 
Belgians  at  his  table.     (Pity  it  was  so  few  !) 

'  David  Potterat, 

'Retired  Police- Inspector.' 

He  read  both  letters  over  again  with  delight,  rubbed 
his  hands,  chuckled  to  himself  silently,  wrinkling  up  his 
eyes,  and  felt  himself  all  at  once  very  useful,  and 
necessary  to  the  honour  of  his  country;  in  short,  the 
good  man  was  inordinately  pleased  with  himself. 

"  Potterat,  my  boy,"  he  told  himself,  "  these  heights 
of  courage  come  very  rarely  in  a  man's  life.  To  write 
only  to  foreigners,  even  distinguished  foreigners,  is  not 
the  part  of  a  good  citizen.  .  .  .  Good  things  run  in 
threes !  ...  In  a  democratic  country  like  this,  the 
private  citizen  may,  and  ought  to,  keep  in  touch  with  the 
authorities.  Now,  since  you  haven't  exactly  been  in 
agreement  with  their  decrees  for  the  last  year,  it  might 
be  as  well  for  you  to  write  and  tell  them  so  frankly,  ex- 
plaining your  own  point  of  view  respectfully.     You  are 


314  POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR 

in  the  right:  on  principle,  throughout  your  career,  you 
have  upheld  the  Government;  you  have  paid  your  taxes 
regularly;  you  are  free  from  debt;  your  private  life  and 
character  have  always  been  spotless;  this  being  the  case, 
you  have  a  good  right  to  put  forward  your  point  of  view 
.  .  .  and  if,  after  all,  they  insist  on  bringing  you  to  book 
for  breaking  the  regulations,  if  they  accuse  you  of  giving 
information  to  foreign  nations,  because  you  have  written 
to    two   well-known    and    honourable    people,    residing 
outside  this  territory,  well,  it  can't  be  helped  .  .  .  you 
won't  be  the  first  to  have  made  a  mistake.  .  .  .    Major 
Davel  did  worse  than  that.  ...     In  a  Republic,  surely 
it  is  not   a  crime  to  declare  to  the  authorities  one's 
point  of  view,  and  to  ask  them  a  question  or  two  .  .  .  and 
that  in  the  politest  way,  too.  .  .  .    Certainly  it's  not  !  .  .  . 
That  Major  has  risked  his  life,  and  lost  a  leg:  others 
have  lost  both  eyes;  surely  I  can  risk  something  for  a 
letter.  .  .  .    Not  to  mention  that  very  likely  they  know 
nothing  about  it.     This  will  give  them  something    to 
think  about.  .  .  .  Now,  another  March  ! .  . ."  and  Potterat 
rose,  went  to  the  cupboard,  and  put  into  the  gramophone 
the  '  C antique  Suisse,'  closed  the  door,  and  sat  down 
again  at  the  table.     Very  soon,  inspired  by  the  distant 
music,  he  began  to  write,  his  tongue  between  his  teeth, 
multiplying   his   capitals,    by   way   of   emphasizing   his 
respect.  ; 

'TO  THE  SUPREME  FEDERAL  COUNCIL. 

'  Monsieur  le  President  and  Gentlemen, 

'  In  the  present  difficult  times,  the  Authorities 
must  naturally  wish  to  be  informed  of  everything  of  any 
importance.  I  feel  it  my  duty,  therefore,  loyally  to  put 
you  in  possession  of  the  following  facts :  Although  neutral, 
I  have  written  a  letter  of  encouragement  to  General 
J  off  re.  Furthermore,  having  had  two  Belgians  living  in 
my  house  for  some  time,  I  have  despatched  a  letter  to 


POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR  315 

King  Albert,  to  tell  him  how  much  all  honest  people 
approve  of  his  actions  and  conduct. 

1  The  undersigned  takes  this  opportunity  also  of  ex- 
pressing frankly  to  the  Authorities  his  way  of  looking  at 
recent  Happenings.  The  said  undersigned  is  neither  a 
fine  speaker,  nor  is  he  one  of  the  party  in  opposition, 
but  one  who  has  always  done  his  utmost  to  act  in  accord- 
ance with  the  ideas  of  the  Government.  On  this  occasion 
he  can  no  longer  do  so,  and  this  is  why  I  have  ventured 
to  write.  I  may  add  that  having  had  neither  the  time  nor 
the  means  to  attend  the  University,  I  hope  that  this  will 
be  borne  in  mind,  if  I  should  express  myself  in  a  manner 
calculated  to  hurt  anyone's  feelings,  or  to  offend.  I  will 
also  add,  that  as  Policeman  first,  and  afterwards  Inspector 
of  Police  for  the  town  of  Lausanne  during  thirty  years 
and  six  months,  I  know  by  experience  what  it  is  to  be 
exposed  to  criticism,  and  that  it  is  often  best  to  let  the 
critics  bray,  and  simply  to  carry  out  one's  duty,  not 
always  an  easy  task.  But  it  has  also  happened  that  some 
of  these  criticisms  have  been  really  well  founded,  and  I 
have  acknowledged  it  by  modifying  my  course  of  action 
in  some  degree  accordingly.  May  I  say  that  I  fully 
realize  the  difficulties  of  the  Authorities,  and  I  do  not 
wish  to  increase  them  deliberately. 

1  This  said,  I  will  now  come  to  the  matter  that  is 
troubling  me.  I  read  yesterday  evening  in  the  Feuitte 
d'Avis  a  Report  of  the  Belgian  Commission  of  Inquiry,  a 
Committee  composed  of  competent  men,  chosen  by  their 
country  for  the  task,  men  like  yourselves.  "  The  village 
of  Louveigne  is  in  ruins.  It  was  completely  pillaged,  and 
a  great  part  of  it  burnt.  Seventeen  persons  were  shot 
point-blank."  There  are  over  two  columns  of  this  sort 
of  thing.  I  wish  to  ask  you  why,  seeing  that  Belgium, 
a  neutral  country  like  ours,  has  been  invaded  without 
provocation,  and  overwhelmed  with  blood  and  ruin,  in 
contempt  of  the  treaty  signed  by  a  country  which  has 


316  POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR 

also  guaranteed  our  neutrality,  .  .  .  why  we  have  let  all 
these  months  go  by  without  protesting  even  so  much  as 
through  the  National  Council,  which  would  be  less  serious 
than  a  protest  from  the  Federal  Council  ?  My  opinion 
is  that  it  was  in  the  highest  degree  important  to  make 
this  protest.  There  ought  to  be  complete  solidarity 
between  all  neutral  and  small  countries:  they  ought  to 
stand  by  each  other.  That  outrage  concerned  us  very 
nearly,  and  you  may  be  sure  that  if  we  had  been  invaded 
instead,  and  if  Belgium  had  protested  indignantly,  we 
should  have  been  unanimous  in  our  gratitude  and  ap- 
proval. It  is  because  of  our  Neutrality  that  we  ought 
to  speak  out. 

'  Everywhere  we  are  held  to  be  an  honourable,  fair- 
minded  people,  law-abiding,  and  with  a  strong  sense  of 
right  and  justice.  It's  up  to  us  to  deserve  that  Con- 
fidence. Our  Confederation  ought,  in  justice  to  itself, 
to  have  lodged  a  solemn  protest  against  the  invasion  and 
destruction  of  two  feeble  states,  sisters  in  Neutrality. 

■  Nothing,  you  understand,  in  the  least  resembling  a 
declaration  of  war,  but  a  sympathetic  and  indignant 
protest.  Such  a  manifesto  from  the  Federal  Government, 
based  on  simple  honesty,  calmly  and  moderately  ex- 
pressed, would  have  made  a  tremendous  impression  on 
the  world.  .  .  .  Even  if  we  were  taken  by  surprise  in 
the  beginning,  we  have  had  ample  opportunities. since. 
.  .  .  Many  innocent  people,  including  women  and  chil- 
dren, and  some  Swiss  among  them,  have  been  shot, 
.  .  .  thousands  of  civilians,  including  three  of  our  own 
compatriots,  have  been  drowned  like  rats,  without 
giving  them  time  even  to  say  a  bit  of  a  prayer. 
Hundreds  of  soldiers  have  been  asphyxiated  by  abomin- 
able gases,  in  direct  violation  of  the  Hague  Convention,  to 
which  their  adversaries  are  co-signatories.  The  Armenians 
have  been  slaughtered  like  sheep  at  the  shambles.  Before 
this  series  of  abominations  we,  who  are  supposed  to  lead 


POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR  317 

the  nations  in  civilization,  we  have  not  uttered  a  word 
such  as  should  spring  spontaneously  from  the  heart  of  a 
good  man.  As  a  nation,  I  mean.  The  people  themselves, 
by  disobeying  the  regulations  at  the  railway-station,  and 
breaking  through  the  cordon  of  police  in  the  name  of 
Charity,  impressed  upon  the  foreigners  in  our  midst  the 
respect  due  to  Switzerland.  I  must  add,  too,  that  a  strong 
protest  would  have  been  of  great  value  to  our  men  on  the 
frontiers.  In  these  last  months,  when  the  whole  of 
Europe  is  fighting  and  struggling  for  its  life,  such  a 
protest,  without  violence  or  insults,  would  have  been  a 
safeguard  for  ourselves  .  .  .  and  we  should  have  taken 
our  share  to  that  extent.  Instead  of  that  we  have 
drawn  aside.  But  there  are  moments  when  a  country 
ought  to  come  forward,  to  speak  out  on  behalf  of  right, 
even  against  the  strongest.  That  is  what  makes  a 
citizen  proud  of  his  country.  All  our  trouble  to-day 
comes  from  this  unpardonable  slackness  and  feebleness. 
How  we  should  have  flocked  to  the  flag,  and  done  our 
military  service  with  joy  and  enthusiasm — which,  I  regret 
to  say,  is  by  no  means  the  case  at  present :  I  know  it  from 
hundreds  of  witnesses — if  only  in  those  dastardly  assaults 
upon  a  neutral  people  the  nation  had  spoken  out  with 
no  uncertain  voice.  For  my  own  part,  this  silence  has 
been  a  great  grief  to  me.  In  circumstances  like  these  the 
neutral  who  holds  himself  aloof  timidly  in  the  back- 
ground has  the  air  of  agreeing  to  it  all.  Surely  King 
Albert,  who  visited  our  National  Exhibition  the  other 
day,  and  with  whom  you  have  shaken  hands,  who  knows 
and  loves  our  mountains,  surely  he  merits  better  treat- 
ment than  this  at  our  hands  !  Some  people  say:  "  That 
would  have  driven  us  into  a  corner",  and  drawn  us 
into  discussions."  Has  not  a  clever  orator  proclaimed 
from  the  rostrum,  "  Necessity  knows  no  law  !"  ?  No, 
there's  no  excuse.     The  thing  was  wrong  ! 

'  And  that  certain  other  neutrals  are  silent  too  has 


318  POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR 

nothing  to  do  with  it.  In  the  first  place,  they  are  not 
neutrals  in  the  same  way  as  we  are,  with  signed  treaties; 
they  have  not  our  history;  they  have  not  our  national 
songs;  and  most  of  them  have  all  sorts  of  hidden  schemes, 
ideas  about  colonies,  cirri  eres-pensees  of  annexation,  and 
so  on. 

'  But  we  have  clean  hands.  It  is  William  Tell's 
country,  and  no  other,  which  ought  to  take  the  lead  in 
doing  the  right  thing;  for  no  one  will  ever  convince  me 
that  our  neutrality  absolves  us  from  the  claims  of 
Humanity.  Meantime,  our  brothers  in  neutrality  are 
either  dead,  or  scattered,  or  under  a  foreign  yoke;  the 
thought  of  their  suffering  brings  the  tears  to  my  eyes. 
It  would  have  been  to  the  Glory  of  the  Government  to 
have  intervened  on  the  ground  of  respect  for  Treaties, 
ready  to  take  the  consequences  of  this  Honourable  Act, 
whatever  they  might  be;  we  should  have  done  our  duty, 
at  all  hazards.  Then, ' '  On  guard  ! ' '  There  are  thousands 
of  citizens  who  think  as  I  do,  especially  amongst  the 
mass  of  the  people,  who  are  the  backbone  of  the  Nation. 

'  As  for  the  provisioning  of  the  Nation,  which  of  course 
is  the  first  consideration  of  those  in  Authority  (and  if  I 
have  permitted  myself  to  criticize  any  arrangements  on 
this  score  during  these  last  months,  I  withdraw  them 
completely.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  I  have  not  hesitated 
to  lay  in  provisions  for  my  own  family  as  far  as  I  was 
able)  ...  for  the  provisioning  of  the  nation,  I  have  nothing 
but  praise  and  congratulations.  .  .  .  We  are  all  grateful. 
.  .  .  There  is  only  the  one  Omission,  which  still  persists. 
It  is  only  by  Acts  of  Honour  and  Pride,  devoid  of 
all  provocation,  that  a  nation  so  diverse  in  its  elements 
as  ours  can  be  held  together.  Such  an  occasion  as  this 
is  not  likely  to  happen  again  very  soon,  and  there 
are  thousands  of  Swiss  people  who  came  back  from 
abroad,  who  have  gone  away  again,  disillusioned.  .  .  . 
Now,  that's  true.  And  it's  worth  thinking  out.  .  .  . 
We're  like  a  loose  sheaf  at  present. 


POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR  319 

'  I  am  writing  this  in  the  middle  of  the  night,  having 
just  come  back  from  saluting  the  wounded  on  their  way 
through,  and  this  is  why  I  am  writing  at  such  length, 
for  at  night  one  is  always  less  reserved  than  in  the  day- 
time. And  I  add  that  my  gramophone  is  playing  the 
"  Cantique  Suisse  "  for  the  third  time  in  succession. 
That's  a  guarantee  of  my  patriotism,  I  think.  Now,  what 
I  want  to  know  is  this:  I  have  read  and  thought  over 
your  regulations,  Gentlemen  and  Honoured  Leaders, 
and  the  more  I  think  of  them  the  more  bewildered  I  am. 
When  one  dishonours  his  signature,  and  breaks  his  word, 
how  are  we,  henceforth,  to  describe  these  doings  ?  If 
I  say  that  this  sort  of  thing  is  disgusting,  abominable, 
am  I  vilifying  a  foreign  Government  ?  Am  I  holding 
it  up  to  contempt  ?  .  .  .  Frankly,  it  seems  to  me,  that 
it  is  the  other  who  began.  .  .  .  And  am  I  liable  for 
that  to  six  months'  imprisonment  and  a  fine  of  five 
thousand  francs  ?  .  .  .  I  wouldn't  so  much  mind  the 
six  months,  seeing  that  I  am  retired,  and  so  have  a 
good  deal  of  time  on  my  hands,  but  five  thousand 
francs !  .  .  .  That's  making  the  truth  very  dear  in- 
deed !  .  .  .  In  the  schools  our  children  are  taught  to 
sing  "  De  I'etranger  meprisant  le  courroux."  . . .  Despising  ? 
.  .  .  Is  it  against  the  law  to  say  that  ?  .  .  .  Is  it  com- 
patible with  neutrality  ?  .  .  .  And  wouldn't  it  be  as  well, 
too,  to  fasten  up  some  pages  in  our  history  books  ?  .  .  . 
That  part,  for  instance,  where  William  Tell  refuses  to 
salute  Gessler's  cap  ?  .  .  .  What  was  that  but  holding  a 
foreign  Government  up  to  contempt  ?  .  .  . 

'  Having  served  my  country  faithfully  and  honourably 
for  the  time  hereinbefore  mentioned,  and  having  always 
been  looked  up  to  with  respect  by  the  people,  I  should  like 
to  know  how  I  am  to  behave  for  the  future  so  as  to  avoid 
making  myself  liable  to  an  action  ?  If,  to  avoid  this,  I 
must  refrain  altogether  from  commenting  upon  the 
Events  that  are  happening  in  the  world  to-day,  and  from 


320  POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR 

calling  things  by  their  right  names,  I  can  only  say 
that  I  have  been  too  long  accustomed  to  Liberty  (these 
lines  have  just  come  into  my  head:  "  Guard  our  hearts 
from  cowardice:  Our  Helvetia  is  free!")  to  be  able 
easily  to  impose  such  a  total  restriction  upon  myself. 

'  And  now  the  day  has  come,  the  sun  is  risen,  and  I 
must  stop,  for  the  broad  daylight  will  rob  me  of  the 
courage  to  approach  you. 

'  I  hope  you  will  forgive  the  length  of  this  letter.  It 
is  too  long,  I  know,  and  poorly  expressed,  but  it  is 
sincere.  And  I  beg  you  to  accept,  M.  le  President 
and  Gentlemen  of  the  Council,  the  expression  of  my 
devotion  and  respect. 

'  David  Potterat, 

'Retired  Police- Inspector.' 

This  letter  finished,  addressed,  and  sealed  up,  a  sudden 
wave  of  doubt  invaded  Potterat' s  mind  as  the  daylight 
strengthened  and  his  heroism  faded. 

"  Suppose  they  arrest  you  by  return  of  post  ?  .  .  .  On 
the  other  hand,  I  have  only  told  them  how  I  feel,  and 
asked  them  for  a  word  of  explanation  and  advice.  .  .  . 
There's  nothing  seditious  in  that.  Not  to  mention  that 
I  have  told  them  the  truth  very  politely.  .  .  .  Oh,  look 
here,  if  you  wait  another  quarter  of  an  hour,  you  know 
very  well  that  you'll  never  send  that  letter  !  Get  out 
of  this  tunnel !  There  are  too  many  tunnels.  ...  And 
it's  skulking  in  them  that  is  ruining  us  !  You're  not 
going  to  skulk  in  one  !  .  .  .  Besides,  '  One  for  all,  all  for 
one,'  remember.  Since  they  are  all  for  you,  and  all 
intelligent,  educated  men,  they  will  take  the  thing  in 
good  part.  .  .  .  Ah,  the  belligerents  will  never  know 
what  we  in  Switzerland  have  suffered ! 

It  was  done.  The  three  letters  had  fallen  into  the 
letter-box.  .  .  .  The  dawn  was  beautiful,  the  air  blew 
pure  and  fresh  through  the  trees,  the  birds  were  singing. . .  . 

"  Well,"   reflected  Potterat,   "  every  man  goes  mad 


POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR  321 

once  in  his  life,  they  say.  ...    I  felt  as  if  I  simply  had  to 
do  it." 

It  was  almost  six  o'clock  by  the  time  he  got  home. 

"  Oh,  David,  you  have  given  me  such  a  fright !"  said 
his  wife.  '  When  I  saw  you  hadn't  been  to  bed  all 
night !  .  .  .  Where  have  you  been  ?  .  .  .  I  wish  you 
wouldn't  go  to  the  station  like  this !  Here  you  are,  all 
flushed,  excited,  upset !  .  .  .   Oh  !  this  war  !  .  .  ." 

"  Oh,  you  mind  your  own  business,  my  dear,"  replied 
Potterat,  "  and  I'll  mind  mine." 

'  Well,  do  go  to  bed,  David,  and  try  to  get  a  little 
rest." 

He  obeyed  without  another  word.  .  .  .  But  those 
letters!  ...  He  opened  his  eyes  for  a  moment,  then 
closed    them    again,    and    slept    profoundly,    heavily. 

Madame  Potterat  gently  closed  the  shutters,  and  then, 
before  leaving  the  room,  she  looked  at  her  sleeping 
husband.  How  he  took  this  war  to  heart !  Why 
couldn't  he  rest  for  a  few  days  without  exciting  and 
worrying  himself  ?  .  .  .  She  determined  to  try  and 
distract  his  mind  at  all  costs. 

He  woke,  and  stretched  himself. 

"  What  time  is  it  ?" 

"  It's  nearly  twelve  o'clock,  David,  we  are  just  going 
to  have  dinner." 

"  Good  gracious !" 

Quickly  he  got  up,  splashed  in  the  basin,  and  shaved 
himself.  When  he  sat  down  to  the  table,  it  could  easily 
be  seen  that  he  was  hiding  something.  He  kept  laughing 
in  his  sleeve,  he  began  to  say  something,  and  then  pulled 
himself  up,  frowning  uneasily. 

"  David,  what  is  the  matter  with  you  ?"  said  his  wife, 
lovingly. 

"  Hey  ?     What  do  you  mean  ?" 

"  You're  hiding  something  from  us." 

21 


322  POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR 

"  Me  !     Not  at  all !" 

"  Father,"  struck  in  Carlo,  "  why  didn't  you  go  to 
bed  until  six  o'clock  this  morning  ? ' ' 

Again  he  laughed  to  himself.     And  then,  suddenly, 
not  able  to  keep  his  secret  from  them  any  longer,  he 
confessed  coolly,  his  face  betraying  his  ingenuous  pride : 
"  Because  I  was  writing  to  J  off  re,  to  King  Albert,  and 
to  the  Federal  Council.' ' 

"  David  !  Are  you  mad  ?  .  .  .  This  is  terrible  !  .  .  . 
If  you  go  back  to  that  station,  I  tell  you,  it's  all  up  with 
you !  .  .  .  And  what  on  earth  did  you  write  on  these 
letters,  may  I  ask  ?" 

"  On  them  ?    The  address,  of  course." 
"And  what  else?  ..." 

"  Oh,    only  some  political  matters.     Women   don't 
understand  these  things.  .  .  .    But  let  me  tell  you  about 
last  night  at  the  station.  ...    It  was  splendid !     Such 
enthusiasm  !  .  .  .    Such  a  crowd  !  .  .  .    Oh,  there's  no 
doubt  our  hearts  are  in  the  right  place.     We're  a  good 
people  .  .  .  only  timid.     We're  afraid  to  risk  anything. 
We're  like  some  cocks,  healthy  and  full  of  spirit  and  life, 
fine  upstanding  creatures,  with  red  combs,  and  big  spurs ; 
but  let  a  hawk  sail  over  the  poultry-yard  and  we  scurry 
into  the  fowl-house  in  double  quick  time  !  .  .  .   And  we're 
all  the  same.     My  word  !     I  had  such  a  discussion  with 
Zimmerli:  I  got  quite  hot  over  it,  and  after  that  I  didn't 
feel  like  going  to  sleep,  so,  in  a  moment  of  absence  of 
neutrality,  I  wrote  a  few  words  of  encouragement  to  the 
first  two,  and  of  encouragement  and  explanation  to  the 
others.     There  !     Don't  let's  talk  any  more  about  it  ! 
Only,  if  the  police  come  for  me,  you'll  know  why." 

Potterat  took  himself  off  somewhere  for  the  whole  after- 
noon. Perhaps  he  went  to  his  favourite  cafe,  to  tell  his 
friends  of  the  events  of  his  wakeful  night.  During 
supper  he  was  very  gay,  and  rather  depressed  by  turns, 
but  in  the  course  of  the  evening,  he  read  the  paper,  played 


POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR  323 

with,  and  teased  Carlo,  and  at  ten  o'clock  as  usual,  they 
said  good-night  to  each  other.  As  soon  as  the  husband 
and  wife  had  retired,  Madame  Potterat  said:  "Well,  I 
hope  you're  going  to  get  some  sleep  to-night,  anyhow.' ' 

"  Not  a  wink,  I'm  afraid.  I  keep  seeing  those  wounded 
men  over  and  over  again,  those  poor  mutilated  bodies, 
armless  and  legless,  that  Major,  those  blind  men.  .  .  . 
They  haunt  me  !  .  .  .  To  think  that  we've  gone  through 
life,  up  to  now,  with  all  our  limbs,  and  with  our  two  eyes, 
that  we've  been  able  to  run,  to  see,  to  do  things  as  we 
liked  !  Seeing  those  men  makes  one  realize  how  thankful 
we  ought  to  be  for  being  spared.  .  .  .  We  live  among 
the  things  our  fathers  and  our  grandfathers  lived  with 
before  us;  we  hear  the  clocks  ticking  that  they  heard 
in  their  day  .  .  .  and  then  think  of  those  poor  Cremets, 
for  instance,  where  are  they  sleeping  to-night  ?  What 
is  left  to  them  ?  .  .  .  They  have  lost  their  country,  their 
church,  their  home.  .  .  .  Ah,  a  good  many  draw  blanks 
in  life's  lottery.  ..." 

The  rising  wind  suddenly  wailed  through  the  shutters 
as  if  bringing  something  of  human  misery  with  it.  Pot- 
terat's  thoughts  flew  to  the  countries  at  war;  he  saw 
hapless  creatures  without  shelter;  he  saw  the  dead 
bodies  with  their  rigid  faces,  imploring  help  that 
never  came;  he  saw  great  masses  of  men  rushing  out  of 
trenches,  and  meeting  other  masses  of  men  like  them- 
selves, differently  dressed,  and  stabbing  them  with 
bayonets  .  .  .  and  he  said: 

"  History  will  come  down  heavily  on  certain  heads. 
Some  people  will  be  cursed  for  all  time.  ..." 

"  Come,  David  !  You  come  to  bed  to  sleep.  .  .  .  You 
worry  yourself  far  too  much  about  the  war.  .  .  .  Look 
here  !     Let's  go  for  a  nice  long  walk  to-morrow  morning  !" 

"  Poum !"  replied  Potterat,  who  was  charging  the 
enemy  in  imagination,  at  the  head  of  a  company. 

"  Come,  come,  David  !    Do  go  to  sleep  !" 


324  POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR 

"Fin  thinking !  Fd  like  to  win  a  battle  before 
I  close  my  eyes  !" 

He  seemed  now  to  see  his  own  country,  its  sleepy 
valleys,  lulled  by  the  sound  of  their  waterfalls,  its  villages 
and  towns,  where  honest  magistrates  were  sleeping,  their 
beards  outstretched  on  the  sheets.  By  way  of  rousing 
them,  he  said  again : 

"  Poum  !     Poum  !" 

"  David  !  You'll  frighten  those  ladies  on  the  second 
floor. " 

"  All  right !  Besides,  the  battle  is  won.  Go  to  sleep, 
my  dear.  Good-night,  and  God  bless  you  !  I  love  you 
very  much." 

For  some  months  past,  Potterat  had  roused  everyone 
each  morning  at  six  o'clock  by  shouting : 

"  Get  up,  you  neutrals  !" 

This  morning  he  said  nothing.  His  wife  leaned  over 
him.  How  soundly  he  was  sleeping,  smiling  in  his  sleep, 
very  calm,  a  little  pale,  and  so  still !  Hastily,  she  put 
her  hand  on  his  forehead,  and  immediately  she  gave  a 
stifled  scream,  and  babbled  words  without  meaning. 
Carlo  came  running  at  the  sound  of  his  mother's  voice, 
and  he,  too,  screamed,  clinging  closely  to  her.  Then 
they  ran  out  together,  their  arms  round  each  other, 
terrified,  they  knew  not  why.  A  frightened  neighbour 
knocked  at  the  door,  asked  some  questions,  then  ran  to 
the  telephone.  Presently  the  mother  and  son  returned, 
still  with  their  arms  round  each  other.  They  stood  by 
the  bed,  and  once  more  the  mother  put  her  hand  on  the 
icy  forehead.  s 

M  David,  David  !"  she  cried. 

"  Father  !     Father  !" 

But  he  did  not  answer.  The  mother  and  son  roamed 
from  room  to  room  in  tears,  repeating  to  all  the  familiar 
things,  to  the  portrait  of  his  first  wife:  "  He  is  dead." 


POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR  325 

And  presently  a  doctor  with  a  square  forehead  was 
leaning  over  him.  No,  there  was  nothing  more  to  be 
done.  Without  any  suffering,  he  had  passed  away  in 
his  sleep,  gliding,  as  it  were,  from  one  dream  into  another. 
To  his  loved  ones,  who  leaned  over  him,  who  murmured 
tender  words  to  him,  he  seemed  to  say : 

"  Don't  grieve,  it  is  the  universal  law.  Those  who 
have  gone  before  will  be  very  glad  to  see  me  again.  And 
you  will  come  by-and-by,  my  dears.  I  love  you  so  much, 
and  I  will  look  out  for  you.  What  can  I  say  more  ?  .  .  . 
I  must  rest  now.  ..." 

When  the  notice  of  his  death,  surrounded  with  a  black 
border,  and  supplemented  by  these  words:  '  Blessed  are 
they  who  hunger  and  thirst  after  righteousness,  for  they 
shall  be  filled, '  appeared  in  the  paper,  people  who  had 
known  him  said : 

"  Oh  !  Potterat  is  dead  V  And  they  added  nothing 
more,  for  silence  is  the  most  beautiful  elegy  for  those  who 
are  loved. 

...  A  funeral  advanced  slowly,  gravely,  along  the 
road,  without  any  excessive  travesty  of  grief,  however. 
On  the  coffin  were  four  wreaths,  with  ribbons  fluttering 
in  the  breeze ;  one  from  the  Police,  one  from  his  comrades 
of  the  rifle-corps,  another  from  the  members  of  his  band, 
and  a  fourth  from  the  Choral  Society.  Another  carriage 
was  almost  covered  with  flowers  sent  by  all  sorts  of 
humble  friends,  by  fishermen,  by  commissionaires,  old 
men  and  women,  gardeners,  a  bunch  of  forget-me-nots 
from  little  Robert,  the  lame  boy  of  the  basement,  and  a 
bunch  of  roses  from  Zimmerli. 

Behind  walked  the  family.  Ernest,  who  held  Carlo  by 
the  hand;  Schmid  and  his  son  Louis;  some  cousins  from 
Romainmotier;  other  cousins  from  Thierrens;  some  of  his 
Bioley  friends;  the  Brise  du  Lac,  with  flags  at  half-mast, 
brass  instruments  glittering  in  the  sun,  and  the  red  covers 


326  POTTERAT  AND  THE  WAR 

of  their  music-books  sticking  out  of  their  pockets;  some 
police-officers,  amongst  them  Boulenaz;  and,  bringing  up 
the  rear,  a  detachment  of  about  thirty  police-constables 
in  full  dress,  commanded  by  Delessert. 

At  the  sound  of  their  measured  tramp,  tramp,  small 
boys  came  running,  their  caps  in  their  hands,  asking: 

"  Who  is  it  ?" 

Someone  replied,  "  It's  Inspector  Potterat." 

Shaking  his  head  sadly,  Bigarreau  said  to  his  next 
neighbour : 

"  Poor  Potterat !  .  .  .  We  shall  never  see  his  like 
again.  ...  It's  this  war  that  has  killed  him.  He  felt 
it  and  lived  it  with  all  his  heart.  .  .  .  Ah,  he  was  a 
splendid  fellow  !     One  of  the  very  best !  .  .  ." 


BILLING   AND    SONS,    LTD.,    PRINTERS,    GUILDFORD,    ENGLAND 


Yb    00  1^7 


